Obj^/^W^ 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 


Books  by  E.  Temple  Thurston 

The  Passionate  Crime 

Achievement 

Richard  Furlong 

The  Antagonists 

The  Open  Window 

The  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense 

The  Apple  of  Eden 

Traffic 

The  Realist 

The  Evolution  of  Katherine 

Mirage 

Sally  Bishop 

The  Greatest  Wish  in  the  World 

The  Patchwork  Papers 

The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

The  Flower  of  Gloster 

Thirteen 


THE 

PASSIONATE  CRIME 

A   TALE   OF  FAERIE 


BY 

E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "ACHIEVEMENT,"  "RICHARD  FURLONG," 
"THE  ANTAGONISTS,"  "THE  OPEN  WINDOW,"  ETC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  1915 


COPVMOHT,  1915,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO  DION  BOUCICAULT 

My  dear  Boucicault, 

You  have  shown  such  a  kind  interest  in  this  story  for  the 
drama — such  as  it  may  be — which  it  contains,  that  I,  long 
ago,  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  you  to  accept  its  dedication 
when  it  came  before  the  public  in  the  garments  of  a  book. 

It  still  remains  for  me  to  dress  it  as  a  play  and  when  that 
comes  to  pass,  I  hope  you  will  still  approve  of  the  tailor 
who  is  indebted  to  you  for  the  custom  of  much  kindness. 
Yours  sincerely, 

E.  Temple  Thurston. 

Gellibrands,  191$. 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

PART  I 

CHAPTER  I 

WHO,  if  any,  I  wonder,  knows  the  true  his- 
tory of  Anthony  Sorel  and  Anna  Quar- 
termaine?  Do  I  really  know  it  myself? 

Some  of  that  which  I  heard  was  told  me  by  an 
old  woman  up  in  the  mountains  near  Clogheen.  This 
was  not  so  many  miles  from  where  they  took  An- 
thony Sorel,  therefore  I  persuaded  myself  that  she 
would  be  as  likely  as  any  to  have  the  truth.  More- 
over there  was  something  in  the  telling  of  it,  some- 
thing in  the  atmosphere  that  surrounded  her  in  her 
lonely  cottage  on  that  wild  mountainside — you 
must  know  well  what  I  mean — which  brought  con- 
viction to  me. 

This  little  hovel  of  hers  stood  in  the  scant  shelter 
of  a  cluster  of  mountain  ash,  only  a  few  hundred 
yards  from  the  road  that  winds  its  silent  and  lonely 
way  through  a  pass  of  the  hills. 

Down  that  pass,  the  whole  winter  long  the  wind 
drives  the  beaten  rain,  an  endless  herd  of  raindrops, 
swelling  the  brown  mountain  streams  as  they  froth 

i 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

and  fume  over  the  bowlders.  For  ever  they  are 
making  cascades  and  waterfalls,  these  little  streams. 
Sometimes  the  mountain  land  offers  them  a  hollow 
wherein  they  swirl  into  an  eddying  pool.  They  look 
so  deep  those  pools.  A  mountain  pool,  a  mountain 
lake — who  would  not  believe  in  faeries,  standing 
by  the  edge  of  one  of  these ! 

This  was  where  the  old  woman  lived  who  told 
me  the  story  of  Anthony  Sorel  and  Anna  Quarter- 
maine.  She  knew  everything,  this  old  woman.  It 
was  as  though,  in  that  miserable  hovel  of  hers, 
many  and  many  a  mile  from  any  place  of  habitation, 
it  was  as  though  she  heard,  by  some  miracle,  all  the 
gossip  of  the  big  world.  I  felt  she  knew  far  more 
than  she  wished  to  tell.  From  whom  did  she  get 
her  knowledge?  That  road  from  Clogheen  across 
the  mountains,  seems  the  loneliest  road  in  the  world. 
For  miles  along  its  uneven  surface,  you  may  walk 
and  walk  seeing  never  a  soul,  or  just  a  herdsman 
perhaps,  driving  his  cattle  to  a  distant  farm. 

Yet  I  suppose  the  whole  of  the  world,  the  world 
of  those  parts,  goes  by  that  way.  There  is  no  other 
road  I  know  of  bearing  to  the  south.  And  I  can 
well  imagine  the  rush  of  joy  that  leaps  up  in  the 
heart  of  a  traveler  when,  out  of  the  lashing  sheets 
of  mist  and  rain,  he  sees  through  the  gray  dark- 
ness, the  candle  glimmering  in  her  tiny  window. 

Why  do  I  say  "imagine"?  I  know  well,  without 
a  call  upon  my  fancy,  the  joy  I  felt  when  first  I  saw 
that  candle-light. 

Coming  from  Clogheen  and  nine  long  miles  along 

2 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

the  road,  with  five  and  more  still  stretched  before 
me,  I  found  the  mist  of  the  rain  beating  with  pin 
pricks  on  my  face.  It  was  difficult  to  keep  my  eyes 
open.  My  clothes  were  drenched,  the  water  drip- 
ping in  collected  drops  from  the  edges  of  my  sleeves 
and  slowly  draining  from  the  sodden  collar  of  my 
coat.  In  the  dim  light,  I  could  see  the  mountain 
sheep,  clinging  under  the  shelter  of  the  rocks,  their 
backs  turned  to  the  driving  wind. 

How  many  more  miles?  What  hour  of  night 
could  I  hope  to  reach  my  destination?  My  pace 
had  fallen  to  three  miles  an  hour.  How  many  more 
miles?  And  then  that  little  orange  chink  of  light 
through  the  ash  trees — the  sight  of  the  glimmering 
window — still  more  the  quiver  of  trembling  light 
within  that  told  its  promise  of  a  cheerful  fire  of 
wood  and  peat.  That  rush  of  joy,  I  felt  then. 

I  stepped  off  the  road,  staggering  and  stumbling 
through  the  sodden  marsh  land.  The  water  soaked 
into  my  boots  with  squelching  noises  that  seemed 
to  suck  the  last  warm  drop  of  blood  out  of  my  veins. 

I  knocked  at  the  door  and  heard  a  grunt  within 
— a  human  grunt  that  spoke  in  volumes  of  a  deep 
suspicion.  Would  she  open  to  me?  Would  I  open 
to  the  first  sound  of  a  knock  upon  the  door  on  such 
a  night,  if  I  lived  in  those  lonely  mountains? 

All  fell  silent  and  I  knocked  again. 

Then  I  heard  footsteps  shuffling  within — -still  a 
suspicious  sound,  giving  me  no  assurance  of  the 
welcome  that  I  needed.  They  slowly  approached 
the  door.  With  the  slow  unbolting  of  a  latch,  it 

3 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

was  opened  an  inch.  The  wind  seized  it  and  against 
her  body  blew  it  open  still  further.  There  was  the 
old  woman.  Like  an  animal's,  accustomed  to  the 
light,  her  face  peered  out  blindly  into  the  darkness. 

"Can  you  give  me  shelter?"  said  I. 

She  paused  in  curious  inquisitiveness  before  she 
answered. 

"Shelter ?"  I  repeated. 

"Is  it  coming  from  Clogheen,  ye  are?"  she  asked 
gruffly. 

I  said  I  was. 

"What  a  fool  ye  are,"  said  she — "wid  the  night 
on  top  av  ye,  an'  ye  in  yeer  little  coat." 

I  explained  that  it  was  a  fine  sunset  when  I  started 
and  did  not  promise  for  rain.  But  still  she  held  the 
door  against  the  wind  and  made  no  movement  to 
suggest  that  she  would  take  me  in. 

"Now  I'm  drenched  to  the  skin,"  I  went  on — "I 
can't  get  to  Cappoquin  to-night." 

"There'd  be  a  corpse  to  be  buried  if  ye  did,"  said 
she,  and  either  it  was  the  slow  relenting  of  her  deter- 
mination or  it  was  the  wind,  but  the  door  yielded 
another  inch  against  her  body. 

"Could  I  just  come  in  and  dry  my  clothes  by  the 
fire?"  I  pleaded.  "The  rain  may  stop  soon." 

Perhaps  it  was  my  pitiable  ignorance  of  the 
weather's  ways  in  this  part  of  the  world  that  made 
her  fully  relent,  for  at  that  she  let  the  wind  take  the 
door  and  swing  it  wide  upon  its  hinges.  I  hurried 
into  the  little  room  and  she  closed  out  the  night 
behind  me. 

4 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

It  was  a  one-roomed  cottage.  There  are  so  many 
in  the  wild  parts  of  Ireland.  The  floor  was  of  mud, 
caked  and  hard — dirty  it  is  true — but  warm  and 
welcome  enough  then.  The  fire  burned  brightly  on 
the  floor  under  the  open  chimney — the  glowing  peat 
and  crackling  faggots  were  laid  on  two  slabs  of 
stone.  They  would  long  have  burnt  deep  into  the 
floor  unless. 

Without  seeming  too  curious,  I  looked  around 
me.  It  must  have  been  such  a  cottage  as  this  in 
which  Anthony  Sorel  had  lived.  There  was  just  a 
bed,  a  table  beneath  the  little  window,  a  dresser  of 
painted  deal  upon  which  more  of  the  blue  and  white 
plates  were  broken  than  were  whole.  The  lower 
cupboards  of  this  dresser  were  barred  with  strips 
of  wood,  as  a  cage.  There  she  kept  her  chickens. 
Sometimes  to  a  noise  in  the  room,  they  shifted  on 
their  perches,  making  raucous  sounds  as  though 
annoyed  at  the  disturbance.  For  the  most  part  they 
were  quiet  company  though,  but  none  too  clean. 
The  floor  was  soiled  with  them.  Even  a  chair  that 
stood  against  the  wall  bore  marks  of  their  existence 
in  the  room.  The  old  woman  had  long  lost  all  sense 
of  tidiness. 

Realizing  the  solitude  of  her  life  there  alone,  I 
scarcely  wondered  at  it.  It  is  the  social  instinct 
that  tends  to  make  us  regard  the  cleanliness  and 
well-seeming  of  the  body.  When  we  are  surrounded 
by  the  loneliness  of  life,  it  is  the  mind  we  live  with. 
Almost  it  is  as  though  the  body  ceases  to  exist.  This 
h  much  what  Anthony  Sorel  believed. 

5 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

As  soon  as  she  had  closed  the  door,  the  old 
woman  pulled  up  the  chair  from  against  the  wall 
and  set  it  by  the  fire.  The  invitation  for  me  to  be 
seated  was  a  silent  one.  When  she  sat  down  her- 
self on  the  three-legged  stool  near  the  bellows- 
wheel,  I  sat  down  on  the  chair. 

For  the  moment,  while  we  were  silent,  I  glanced 
at  the  bed.  No  better  description  of  it  can  I  give 
than  by  saying  it  was  four-posted,  yet  it  seemed 
to  be  built  into  the  wall;  to  be  part  of  the  room 
itself.  The  bed-clothes  were  indescribable — dirty 
and  disordered.  The  outer  cover  of  the  clothes 
might  well  have  been  a  horse-blanket,  but  stained 
and  long  since  indistinguishable  from  the  thing 
it  once  had  been.  What  clothes  there  were  beneath 
it,  I  could  not  see.  Indeed  I  felt  I  did  not  wish  to 
know. 

But  it  was  the  odor  of  that  room  which  first  and 
most  of  all  revolted  me.  I  find  it  impossible  to 
describe.  So  many  scents  were  mingled  there — the 
smell  of  peat,  the  burning  wood,  aromatic  and 
delightful  enough  in  themselves,  but  mixed  with  the 
smell  of  the  chickens,  the  close  atmosphere,  my  own 
damp  clothes  perhaps  as  well  and  God  knows  what 
odor  from  the  old  woman  herself,  they  all  combined 
to  offend  my  nostrils  and  stifle  the  breath  in  my 
throat.  It  was  like  air  out  of  which  all  the  good- 
ness and  the  cleanliness  had  been  breathed;  it  was 
heavy,  tired,  as  the  smell  of  flowers  that  have  stood 
long  dead  in  water  no  one  ever  changed.  And  there 
outside  was  the  clean  wind,  leaving  the  scent  of 

6 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

heather  in  a  lingering  suspension  as  it  rushed  along 
the  mountainside. 

It  is  strange  though  how  quickly  one's  senses 
become  accustomed  to  the  things  which  just  a  con- 
trast makes  unendurable.  In  a  few  moments,  the 
warm  atmosphere  had  taken  the  chill  out  of  my 
blood  and  only  the  smell  of  the  peat  was  conscious 
to  my  mind  as  I  sat  there. 

Outside  the  wind  whistled  and  it  howled.  It  flung 
the  rain  like  grains  of  sand  against  the  window-pane ; 
it  rattled  the  door  on  its  old  hinges  and  threw  the 
raindrops  down  the  chimney,  spitting  into  the  fire. 
Never  did  it  seem  I  had  known  such  a  night. 

I  said  as  much,  hoping  to  make  conversation,  for 
though  in  odd  moments  I  could  see  the  old  woman 
was  taking  cunning  glances  at  me,  yet  for  the  most 
part,  she  sat  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  face 
in  her  hands,  staring  into  the  fire. 

She  looked  up  as  though  she  pitied  me  when  I 
spoke  about  the  rain. 

"  'Tis  fine  and  soft,"  said  she  and  then,  having 
once  spoken,  her  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her.  She 
plied  me  with  questions  a?  to  where  I  had  come 
from,  whence  I  was  going;  half  ingenuous,  half 
cunning  questions  as  to  who  I  was  and  what  I  was 
doing  in  that  part  of  the  world. 

I  pulled  a  book  out  of  the  little  parcel  of  things  I 
was  carrying  and  gave  it  into  her  hand.  She  just 
looked  at  it  as  though  it  were  a  strange  thing,  being 
no  answer  to  her  question  and  then  returned  it  to 
me. 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"An'  what's  that?"  said  she. 

"A  book  of  poems — "  I  replied. 

"An'  what's  the  good  o'  them  to  me  and  I  can't 
read,"  said  she. 

"Can't  read  at  all?" 

"There's  deuce  a  worrd  I  can  read  an'  'tis  over 
the  shop  windows,  an'  painted  out  for  me  as  large 
as  meself.  What's  poethry  to  me?  What  would  I 
be  doin'  readin'  in  a  place  like  this?" 

I  wished  to  conceal  my  astonishment.  What 
could  she  do  in  a  place  like  that  if  she  did  not  read? 

"Have  you  never  heard  any  poetry  at  all?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh — I  have  indeed,"  she  replied  quickly — 
"Haven't  we  a  gleeman  in  these  parts,  an'  he  as 
blind,  he  couldn't  find  the  door,  till  the  wind  blew 
in  through  the  crack  of  ut." 

I  asked  her  if  she  liked  poetry,  to  which  she  re- 
plied she  did — "Well  enough,"  she  added — "when 
there's  a  lilt,  ye  could  set  yeer  feet  to  ut." 

I  opened  the  book  at  random  and  I  read  out — 


"There  is  a  wind  that  speeds  across 
The  mountain  heather  and  the  moss, 
And  you  alone  will  know  the  loss 
If  it  has  never  found  you. 

It  tunes  the  harp  strings  in  the  trees 
That  play  their  muted  minstrelsies 
Which  fairies  dance  to  on  the  leas, 
Around  and  all  around  you." 
8 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

I  had  scarcely  finished  the  last  word  before  her 
elbows  dropped  off  her  knees  and  her  eyes  were 
dancing  in  the  fire-light  with  excitement. 

"Shure,  glory  be!"  she  exclaimed — "wouldn't  I 
know  that  as  well  as  I'd  know  my  own  name ! 
Wasn't  ut  up  in  the  mountains  here,  away  up  there 
by  Knockshunahallion,  that  Anthony  Sorel  drew  all 
thim  words  down  wid  a  lead  pin  on  bits  of  paper." 

A  lead  pin !  She  meant  with  a  pencil.  But  it  was 
not  the  quaintness  of  this  expression  that  caught  my 
interest.  She,  who  had  never  read  a  written  word 
in  her  life,  knew,  at  first  hearing,  the  author  of  the 
verse  I  had  read  her!  There  was  scarcely  one  in 
England  who  could  have  told  me  by  whom  those 
lines  were  written. 

There  she  lived  in  that  part  of  the  world,  where 
the  obscure  fate  of  Anthony  Sorel  had  woven  its 
completion  on  the  loom  whereon  all  men's  lives  are 
spun.  Knockshunahallion,  so  I  calculated,  was  only 
four  or  five  miles  away,  but  they  were  miles  of 
wildest  Irish  mountain  land,  where  there  is  scarce  a 
man  and  never  a  woman  who  would  walk  them  after 
sunset  when  once  the  night  had  fallen. 

Readily  as  her  knowledge  was  to  be  accounted  for, 
it  surprised  me  nevertheless.  For  this  was  my  mis- 
sion, to  learn  the  truth  of  the  story  concerning  An- 
thony Sorel  and  Anna  Quartermaine.  Not  one  in 
England  could  tell  it  me,  beyond  what  had  hap- 
pened to  filter  through  from  the  Irish  papers  at  the 
time.  And  that  was  well-nigh  twenty  years  ago.  A 
few  there  were  who  had  heard  his  name.  Still  fewer 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

knew  that  he  was  a  poet.     There  was  scarce  one 
who  had  read  his  verse. 

His  work,  when  all  of  it  was  collected,  only  made 
a  small  volume — that  volume  which  I  carried  with 
me  in  the  knapsack  on  my  shoulder.  It  had  been 
published  by  a  man  in  Dublin  who  had  been  dead 
some  years  and  the  book  itself  had  long  since  gone 
out  of  print.  The  volume  which  I  possess,  I  picked 
up  on  a  bookstall  in  London,  before  Aldwych  and 
the  Kingsway  ever  existed  and  Booksellers'  Row 
was  that  corner  of  the  Romance  of  men's  thoughts 
which  has  long  crumbled  into  the  dust. 

First  I  read  the  book,  strangely  attracted  to  the 
verses  it  contained,  strangely  attracted  by  the  beauty 
of  their  imagery  and  mysticism.  Some  I  could  not 
understand  at  all.  Yet,  even  without  the  benefit  of 
understanding,  one  felt  conscious  of  their  over- 
whelming beauty. 

I  began  to  make  inquiries  about  the  life  of  An- 
thony Sorel.  Who  was  he?  Where  did  he  live? 
Where  was  he  born?  His  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  folk  and  faerie  lore  of  Ireland  suggested  indeed 
that  he  lived  there.  I  asked.  But  no  one  knew. 

Two  years  went  by  before  I  discovered  an  old 
bookseller  in  Netting  Hill  who  could  answer  my 
questions  and  then  with  no  degree  of  assurance. 

"Anthony  Sorel?"  he  said.  "You  mean  him  that 
killed  that  woman — killed  that  woman — Oh — I  for- 
get her  name." 

"Killed  a  woman?"  I  said  aghast — "the  man  who 
wrote  those  poems?" 

10 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"That's  it.    Killed  a  woman." 

"How?" 

"With  his  hands,  I  suppose.  With  a  knife  or 
something  like  that." 

"But  why?" 

"Ah — why  does  a  man  kill  a  woman,  unless  it's 
because  he  hates  her  or  loves  her  overmuch." 

"Are  you  sure  of  this?" 

He  nodded  his  head  quite  definitely. 

"Was  he  hanged  for  it?" 

"So  I  believe." 

"When  did  this  happen?" 

"Well — it  must  be  twenty-odd  years  ago." 

"Where?" 

"In  Ireland,  they  say." 

"Why  doesn't  anybody  know  anything  about  it? 
For  two  years  I've  been  asking  people  and  you're 
the  first  man  who's  told  me  anything  about  it." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  know  that  much,"  he  said,  "because  I  once 
had  a  book  of  his  poems  and  a  gentleman  bought 
it  from  me,  out  of  curiosity,  he  said.  I  remember 
his  words  at  the  time.  'You  don't  often  find  a  poet 
and  a  murderer  mixed  up  in  one  man,'  he  said — and 
then  he  told  me  what  I've  just  told  you.  He  men- 
tioned the  name  of  the  woman,  but  I  can't  remem- 
ber it." 

This  much  I  learnt  of  Anthony  Sorel  from  the 

old  bookseller  in  Netting  Hill.    It  was  quite  enough 

to  rekindle  my  interest     I  read  all  his  poems  again, 

thinking  as  the  bookseller's  customer  had  thought, 

2  II 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"You  don't  often  find  a  poet  and  a  murderer  mixed 
up  in  one  man." 

And  every  one  of  those  poems  I  searched  for  one 
trace  of  that  violence  of  passion  which  might  show 
how  he  had  been  driven  to  such  a  deed,  yet  every- 
where there  was  gentleness  itself — a  strange  gentle- 
ness that  almost  seemed  as  if  it  were  not  of  this 
world  at  all. 

Only  one  couplet  out  of  the  many  the  book  con- 
tained seemed  to  strike  into  my  mind  with  a  mean- 
ing I  should  not  have  dreamed  of,  if  I  had  not  heard 
his  story. 

Out  of  sorrow — out  of  pain, 
You  will  find  your  soul  again. 
Seek  it  not  with  burning  eyes 
Where  a  starving  passion  lies. 
Seek  it  not  with  quickening  breath, 
There  it  happens  upon  death. 

Was  it  so  he  had  happened  upon  death?  Was 
jealousy  the  cause,  that  common  cause  through  which 
so  many  men  have  lost  the  power  and  dignity  of 
reason?  I  read  every  poem  once  again,  searching 
in  vain  for  allusion  to  the  passion  of  jealousy.  I 
could  find  nothing  but  that  gentle  imagery,  that 
mystical  aloofness  as  though,  when  once  he  had 
taken  up  his  pen,  imagination  and  a  buoyant 
fancy  had  carried  him  into  some  other  world  than 
this. 

I  tried  to  forget  the  matter  then,  but  again  and 
again  it  kept  recurring  to  my  mind.  You  know 

12 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

that  sensation  when  some  unaccountable  instinct 
prompts  you  to  adventure.  Every  considered  motive 
of  common-sense  urges  you  not  to  set  forth  upon  a 
wild-goose  chase,  yet  something  deeper  than  your 
conscience  bids  you  go.  Something,  voiceless,  tells 
you  that  you  are  sacrificing  the  illimitable  unknown 
for  the  petty  certainty  of  what  you  know.  Up  and 
forth,  that  voiceless  voice  commands  you  and,  if 
there  is  but  the  spirit  of  a  fearless  soul  within  you, 
you  set  out. 

With  spirit  or  without  I  went.  The  hunger  of 
curiosity,  if  it  were  that  alone,  drove  me  to  Ireland. 
From  Dublin  I  took  the  train  to  Clogheen  in  Tip- 
perary,  the  nearest  point  I  could  get  to  that  part 
of  the  mountains  where  Anthony  Sorel  had  lived. 
Then  I  set  out  on  foot,  with  what  adventure  you  have 
heard  already. 

Imagine  then,  when  this  old  woman,  living  alone 
there  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  imagine,  when 
she  mentioned  the  name  of  Anthony  Sorel,  how  my 
heart  leaped  up.  Already  I  felt  that  I  was  at  the 
very  gates  of  discovery. 

"What  do  you  know  about  Anthony  Sorel?"  I 
asked. 

"Shure,  what  would  I  know  indeed?  'Tis  twenty 
years  an'  more  since  he  took  the  knife  off  av  him 
an'  druv  it  into  her  soul,  the  way  the  blood  was 
burstin'  out  av  both  sides  av  her." 

"He  did  kill  her  then?" 

Perhaps  I  had  hoped  there  had  been  some  mis- 
carriage of  justice,  some  terrible  fault  in  the  reck- 

13 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

oning  wherein  he  had  kept  silence  for  honor's 
sake. 

"Is  it  kill  her?"  she  replied.  "Shure  didn't  they 
find  her  body  out  there  on  the  heather,  with  her  eyes 
turned  up  to  the  stars  and  the  wind  tossing  her  hair 
about,  an'  she  dressed  like  a  peasant  woman,  the 
way  I'd  be  myself." 

"Was  he  there  beside  her?" 

"He  was  not.  They  found  him  when  two  days 
had  gone,  sitting  by  the  lake  up  there  in  the  moun- 
tains, he  with  no  food  in  his  stomach  at  all  an'  just 
gazin'  into  the  water,  the  way  he'd  be  waiting  for 
them  on  May  Eve." 

By  "them,"  I  knew  she  meant  the  faeries. 

"He  was  mad,  then,  was  he?"  I  asked. 

"Mad?  Is  ut  mad?  Shure  they  asked  himself 
down  there  in  the  Court  House  in  Cork  was  he 
mad  and  didn't  he  up  and  say  to  the  judge,  'Them's 
mad,'  says  he,  'as  looks  for  justice  the  way  they'd 
hunt  for  a  shillin'  under  a  shtone.'  'Twas  himself 
said  that  to  the  judge.  Shure,  he  was  not  mad  at 
all.  Yirra,  there  are  some  livin'  up  in  the  moun- 
tains there  now,  can  well  remember  him  and  they 
say  that  'twas  not  himself  that  murdered  the  woman 
at  all  but  'twas  the  way  the  faeries  took  her.  A 
man  I  know  who  says  he's  seen  Queen  Maeve  an' 
milks  a  cow  himself  wid  a  broken  leg  to  ut,  he  swears 
bi  the  saints  he's  seen  herself  walking  an'  she  with 
the  faeries  down  there  in  Foildarrig." 

"Then  he  believes  that  Anthony  Sorel  was  inno- 
cent?" 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"He  does  indeed  and  he  will  believe  it  so  as  long 
as  the  goats  make  marbles." 

"Where  did  she  live?  What  sort  of  a  woman 
was  she?" 

"Is  ut  Anna  Quartermaine  ?" 

"Was  that  her  name?" 

"That  was  the  name  av  her  an'  she  livin'  down 
at  Ballysaggartmore  in  a  great  big  house  the  size  ye 
could  put  a  whole  army  av  min  into  ut." 

"Was  she  a  lady  then?" 

"She  was  indeed,  wid  tin  servants  if  ye  plaze  an' 
they  all  hangin'  on  the  steps  av  her  like  a  row  av 
geese  goin'  down  to  the  water." 

"How  did  she  come  to  be  in  peasant's  dress  then 
up  there  in  the  mountains?" 

I  pressed  my  questions  one  quick  upon  the  other, 
for  the  more  I  heard,  the  more  my  curiosity  awak- 
ened; the  more  I  felt  the  mysterious  strangeness 
in  this  story  that  was  growing  before  my  eyes  and 
at  the  very  outset  of  my  journey. 

"How  did  she  come  to  be  in  peasant's  clothes?" 
she  repeated.  "Shure  how  do  ye  come  to  be  sitting 
here  on  my  chair  and  ye  comin'  all  the  ways  from 
London?  Faith  it  just  happened,  I  suppose,  unless 
it  was  as  they  say  beyond  over,  that  the  faeries  had 
taken  her  then  an'  all  the  tin  servants  in  Ballysag- 
gartmore were  out  huntin'  the  heather  for  her,  an' 
she  passin'  by  through  the  middle  av  them  an'  not 
one  to  know  who  she  was." 

"Do  you  think  the  faeries  had  taken  her?" 

"Yirra,  how  would  I  know?  There's  a  man  up 
15 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

there  in  Moonavaullagh  and  when  last  June  was  a 
year,  the  Amadhan  got  the  shtroke  av  him  an'  he 
walking  over  Scart  bridge.  He's  tellin'  wonderful 
tales  now,  but  the  earth'll  turn  over  before  ever 
he  sees  the  light  of  his  wits  again.  Things 
happen." 

Having  said  that,  she  fell  back  again  into  her 
former  attitude,  sitting  there  with  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  her  hands  covering  her  face,  staring  into 
the  fire.  And  the  wind  howled  outside  and  still  the 
raindrops  came  spitting  down  the  chimney.  I 
thought  of  the  lonely  road  I  had  just  left,  of  the 
infinite  stretches  of  mountain  land  drifting  into  the 
running  mist  and  I  had  no  wonder  that  these  people 
could  believe  in  strange  happenings. 

By  her  very  attitude,  I  knew  that  either  she  had 
no  more  to  tell  me,  or  had  fallen  into  that  state 
of  reverie  peculiar  to  her  race  from  which  no  power 
of  mine  could  waken  her.  Still  I  plied  her  with 
one  more  question.  I  asked  her  if  she  could  tell 
me  where  I  might  find  the  man  who  had  known 
Anthony  Sorel,  the  man  who  had  seen  Anna  Quar- 
termaine  walking  with  the  faeries  in  Foildarrig. 

"Are  ye  a  police  officer?"  she  asked  then  with  a 
cunning  glance  at  my  face. 

I  told  her  I  was  not. 

"Then  what's  on  ye?  What  is  ut  ye're  after 
wanting  to  find  wid  the  pore  man?" 

"I  don't  want  to  find  anything  with  him.  I  just 
want  to  try  and  make  out  why  Anthony  Sorel  killed 
Anna  Quartermaine." 

16 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"There's  a  man  livin'  on  Crow  Hill  knows  that," 
said  she,  "but  he  wouldn't  tell  if  God  asked  him  in 
a  little  voice  the  way  ye'd  whisper  a  thing  out  av  a 
child." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"He  goes  by  the  name  of  Malachi — " 

"Malachi  what?" 

"Faith  if  he  knew  that,  he  might  be  claimin* 
himself  out  av  the  line  of  the  kings  of  Ireland,  he 
said." 

I  stamped  that  name  on  my  memory  and  then 
she  would  say  no  more.  She  sat  in  her  reverie 
until  the  kettle  boiled  on  the  peat  fire.  In  silence 
she  made  the  pot  of  tea,  pouring  a  cup  out  for 
me  and  a  cup  for  herself.  It  was  black.  There 
was  no  milk,  nor  did  I  like  to  ask  for  any.  The 
liquid  was  warm  and  comfortable.  I  felt  thank- 
ful for  that.  Still  in  silence,  she  offered  me  a  piece 
of  dry  griddle  bread,  baked  in  the  ashes  of  the  fire, 
the  crust  of  it  still  gray  where  it  had  rested  in  the 
embers. 

When  the  meal  was  finished  she  rose  from  her 
three-legged  stool  and,  without  divesting  herself  of 
a  single  garment,  she  climbed  up  into  the  bed  and 
covered  herself  with  the  horse  blanket. 

"Ye  can  sleep  there  on  the  chair,"  said  she — "or 
ye  can  lie  on  the  floor,  if  yeer  skin's  not  tinder 
an'  ye  won't  mind  the  way  the  chicken  fleas'll  be 
at  ye." 

I  said  I  would  stay  on  the  chair.  So  there  I  sat 
and,  as  the  wind  shook  the  door  on  its  hinges,  I  said 

17 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

good  night  in  my  gratitude  for  the  shelter  she  had 
given  me. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  I  could  hear  the  beads 
clicking  one  by  one  between  her  fingers  as  she  prayed 
herself  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  II 

THERE  is  little  mysticism  in  England;  the  lives 
of  people  are  almost  destitute  of  imagination. 
Perhaps  it  is  so  in  all  big  cities  and  England, 
in  most  parts,  is  one  big  city  now. 

There  are  many  who  claim  imagination,  as,  with 
more  right  no  doubt,  they  claim  a  sense  of  humor. 
But  their  imaginings  are  prompted  by  experience. 
They  imagine  of  the  things  that  will  be,  from  the 
things  that  have  been.  In  Ireland  they  do  not  -do 
that. 

In  Ireland  they  imagine  of  the  things  that  will  be 
and  the  things  that  are,  not  from  what  the  past  has 
taught  them,  but  as  if  they  turned  their  eyes  to 
heaven  and  had  seen  strange  visions  or  as  if  they 
looked  out  into  the  mist  across  the  mountains  and 
heard  strange  sounds  no  other  man  had  heard  be- 
fore. There  is  that  look  in  their  eyes  as  in  the 
eyes  of  a  man  who  has  just  wakened  out  of  sleep, 
not  knowing  which  is  more  real,  the  world  he  lives 
in  or  the  dream  he  has  just  dreamt.  So  they  come 
easily  to  their  belief  in  the  faerie  people. 

I  came  next  day  to  Crow  Hill  in  search  of  Malachi 
and  found  him  to  be  an  old  man  with  such  a  look  in 
his  eyes  as  that  of  which  I  speak. 

He  too  lived  in  a  one-roomed  cottage  that  clung 
in  lonely  fashion  to  the  side  of  Crow  Hill.  There 

19 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

you  look  upwards  towards  the  summit  of  Knock- 
shunahallion  that  pierces  into  the  low-hanging  clouds. 
In  nearly  all  the  seasons  of  the  year,  the  mists  are 
eddying  round  it,  steeping  the  lonely  paths  of  it  in 
mystery. 

There  is  always  mystery  in  the  thing  you  know 
of  but  cannot  see.  That  is  why  mountains  are  so 
mysterious.  There  are  but  few  days  in  the  year 
when  the  peak  of  Knockshunahallion  emerges  into 
the  clear  sunlight  and  gives  its  face  to  the  world. 
Then,  as  the  people  in  those  parts  say,  it  is  a  woman, 
caught  unawares  as  she  looks  at  her  reflection  in  a 
mirror.  "She  has  the  truth  in  her  face  to-day,"  is 
what  they  say.  But  it  is  not  as  if  it  were  the  truth 
they  desired.  No  one  it  seems  would  choose  the 
truth  from  a  woman.  Mystery  must  envelop  her. 
There  the  heart  of  her  beauty  lies.  They  are  more 
at  ease,  more  satisfied  there  on  the  mountainside, 
when  the  summit  of  Knockshunahallion  is  hidden  in 
the  misty  vapors  that  conceal  her  face  as  a  veil  of 
gossamer  conceals  the  eyes  of  a  woman.  So  they 
know  her  best. 

There  are  many  of  them  afraid  of  the  faeries  in 
those  parts;  many  of  them  who  would  not  dare  to 
venture  forth  after  dark  on  the  roads  when  it  is 
May  Eve.  But  that  fear  of  the  mysterious,  that 
consciousness  of  the  unseen  and  the  unknown  is  so 
much  a  measure  of  their  lives,  that  they  would  not 
be  without  it.  It  seems  as  if  they  would  mistrust 
life  unless. 

When  the  old  man  Malachi  opened  the  door  to 
20 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

my  knocking  and  I  found  him  a  withered  creature 
some  seventy  years  of  age,  dressed  in  a  brilliant  red 
shirt,  a  leather  belt  supporting  on  his  limbs  a  pair 
of  trousers  of  unbleached  flannel,  it  was  not  these 
facts  about  him  that  I  noted  most.  It  was  the  look 
in  his  eyes.  He  thought  I  was  a  faerie  man  and 
dared  not  close  the  door  in  my  face,  neither  dared 
he  open  it  further  and  let  me  in. 

As  I  learnt  from  him  long  before  we  parted,  he 
had  seen  faerie  people  many  times  in  his  life.  Once 
a  black  pig  that  had  looked  at  him  over  the  wall, 
then  uttered  cries  like  a  dying  child  as  it  sped  off 
into  the  darkness.  That  night,  so  he  told  me,  a 
black  hen  of  his  died  on  the  roost  under  the  old 
dresser.  It  fell  to  the  floor  with  its  head  severed 
from  its  body,  yet  no  one  had  slept  in  the  house 
that  night  but  himself. 

Again  there  was  an  old  woman — dressed  as  the 
old  women  thereabouts  are — who  set  a  spell  on  his 
eyes  and  took  him  up  into  the  mists  of  Knock- 
shunahallion,  showing  him  there  a  pit  in  the  earth 
that  looked  down  into  the  heart  of  the  world  and 
there  he  saw  his  mother  in  Hell.  His  mother  had 
hanged  herself  from  the  lintel  of  the  door  when  he 
was  a  boy,  because  her  husband  continually  beat  her 
until  life  was  a  sick  thing  in  her  heart.  Malachi  had 
found  her  hanging  there  with  the  face  of  her  dull 
black,  her  lips  swollen,  her  tongue  hanging  out  on 
her  cheek  with  the  flies  walking  over  it. 

The  priest  had  told  him  she  was  in  Hell,  because 
when  a  woman  receives  a  beating  at  the  hands  of  her 

21 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

husband,  she  must  bear  it  patiently.  It  was  the 
scourge  of  God  upon  Eve,  the  priest  told  him,  and 
his  mother  had  gone  to  Hell  because  she  had  taken 
her  life  to  avoid  it.  He  had  pointed  to  the  flies, 
saying  that  was  a  proof  of  where  she  was. 

So  the  old  woman  had  taken  Malachi  up  into  the 
mountains  and  shown  him  his  mother  in  Hell  and 
his  mother  had  called  out,  asking  him  to  take  the 
fire  out  of  her  eyes,  but  when  Malachi  had  made  to 
climb  down  into  the  pit,  the  old  woman  had  held  him 
fast.  He  had  closed  his  eyes  and  struggled  with 
her,  because  he  loved  his  mother  much.  Suddenly 
then,  her  resistance  vanished.  He  opened  his  eyes 
and  found  himself  standing  knee-deep  in  the  wet 
heather  on  the  side  of  Knockshunahallion  and  the 
dawn  was  breaking  out  in  -red  and  gold  over  the 
ridges  in  the  east.  But  the  pit  and  the  old  woman 
had  vanished.  She  was  a  faerie,  he  told  me. 

When  I  came  to  hear  these  things,  I  understood 
only  too  well  that  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  opened  the 
door  that  day  to  me. 

It  was  not  easy  with  that  expression,  half  of  won- 
der, half  of  fear,  to  explain  what  I  wanted  of  him 
then.  Indeed  I  remembered  the  old  woman  on  the 
Clogheen  road;  what  she  had  said  of  him;  how 
he  knew  about  Anthony  Sorel,  but  would  not  tell, 
not  even  if  God  asked  him  in  a  little  voice — so  she 
had  put  it — as  you  would  try  and  whisper  a  thing 
out  of  a  child. 

For  a  moment  then  I  was  at  loss  to  speak,  but, 
swiftly  gathering  my  wits  together,  I  asked  him  if 

22 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

he  knew  of  an  inn  in  those  parts  where  I  could  get 
lodging. 

At  that  he  came  outside  his  house  and  closed  the 
door.  There  was  the  instinct  of  self-protection  in 
the  way  he  did  it.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  were 
relieved  by  the  opportunity  my  question  gave  him  of 
definitely  keeping  from  me  the  shelter  of  his  roof. 

"If  ye  go  down  the  road  past  Doon,"  said  he, 
"there's  wan  bi  the  name  av  Foley  keeps  a  public- 
house  at  Araglin.  Himself  has  a  room  there  he  let 
to  a  foreigner  last  year." 

I  smiled  at  his  use  of  the  word  "foreigner."  Yet 
it  is  true  enough,  we  are  all  foreigners  to  them. 
Although  we  both  spoke  the  same  tongue,  I  felt 
that  he  found  me  no  less  strange  than  I  did  him. 

How  was  I  ever  to  learn — it  struck  me  then — how 
was  I  ever  to  learn  from  him  a  story,  he  would  not 
tell  even  to  God  Himself?  But  that  doubtless  was 
her  way  of  speaking.  I  did  not  wholly  despair. 

"How  many  miles  is  Araglin  from  here?"  I  asked. 

"Well — it  might  be  two  and  it  might  be  three." 
Now  he  was  eyeing  me  more  with  simple  and  fear- 
less curiosity.  "If  I'd  be  walkin'  it  myself,  I  might 
find  it  was  three."  He  looked  me  up  and  down. 
"But  ye've  got  the  good  legs  on  ye,"  he  added,  as 
though  the  distance  differed — as  no  doubt  distance 
does — according  to  your  power  of  covering  it. 

I  have  often  thought  that.  There  is  the  distance 
of  the  mind  and  there  is  the  distance  of  the  body. 
It  is  so  with  Time.  What  are  clocks?  One  mo- 
ment can  be  eternal. 

23 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Do  you  often  walk  that  distance?"  I  asked,  seek- 
ing with  every  effort  to  draw  him  into  some  sort  of 
conversation. 

"Every  Sunday  to  Mass.'' 

"There's  a  chapel  there?" 

"There  is." 

"Who's  your  priest?" 

"Father  Dorgan.  Sometimes  we'd  be  havin' 
Father  Killery  from  Ballysaggartmore." 

I  know  my  eyes  must  have  lighted  up  at  that. 

"Ballysaggartmore,"  I  repeated — "that's  where 
Anna  Quartermaine  lived — isn't  it?" 

He  snatched  a  quick  glance  at  me,  quick  and  full 
of  suspicion. 

"How  did  ye  hear  tell  of  Anna  Quartermaine?" 
he  asked. 

"Wasn't  it  she  who  was  murdered  by  Anthony 
Sorel?"  I  replied. 

He  turned  his  head  away,  looking  up  to  the  peak 
of  Knockshunahallion  where  the  mists  were  still 
floating  after  the  night  of  rain.  And  then  he  spoke, 
not  as  if  he  were  speaking  to  me,  but  with  a  far-off 
note  in  his  voice  as  though  he  would  cast  it  to  the 
ears  of  a  people  in  another  world  than  this. 

"Let  them  bring  forth  the  seed  of  his  body,"  this 
was  what  he  said,  "but  when  a  man  do  be  walkin' 
up  and  down  in  the  mountains,  the  way  a  child  hunts 
for  shells  at  the  strand  of  the  sea,  they'd  destroy 
him  entirely  and  they  leanin'  out  to  take  hold  of  the 
seed  of  his  mind." 

I  listened  intently,  but  not  one  word  had  a  mean- 
24 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

ing,  save  that  of  conjecture,  to  me.  He  spoke  of 
women  and  with  a  bitterness  and  contempt  you  so 
often  find  amongst  the  men  in  the  wildest  parts  of 
Ireland.  Indeed  the  land  is  dearer  to  them  far.  It 
is  the  land  and  seldom  a  woman  they  leave  behind 
them  when  they  go  into  the  far  countries.  It  is 
not  often  their  poets  sing  of  women  but  of  the  land. 
Beauty  in  women  is  a  snare.  They  mistrust  it. 
Few  of  the  evil  spirits  in  that  sad  country  are  men. 
A  strange  sexlessness  inhabits  the  souls  of  the  Irish 
people.  Fierce  as  their  passions  are,  they  are  more 
the  passions  of  an  excitable  mind  than  of  a  suscep- 
tible body.  So  is  the  fame  of  Ireland  world-wide 
for  its  virtue. 

I  looked  at  him  as  he  spoke,  wondering  at  the 
strangeness  of  his  life,  could  I  but  know  it  all ;  com- 
paring it  with  the  lives  of  the  men  I  knew  in  Lon- 
don, with  my  own  life  as  well.  He  was  a  different 
being.  It  was  not  race  that  separated  us,  nor  mode 
of  living,  neither  habits,  nor  customs,  nor  language, 
so  much  as  the  whole  structure  of  our  minds.  We 
are  products  of  a  modern  civilization  here;  but  in 
Ireland,  with  all  the  fervor  of  their  Catholic  faith, 
they  are  pagans,  touching  the  truer  meaning  of  things 
in  all  their  mysticism  and  aloofness.  It  is  they 
alone,  amongst  all  the  people  of  the  West,  who  know 
the  true  value  of  life,  who  can  appreciate  the  real 
momentary  significance  of  death. 

"Are  you  speaking  of  Anna  Quartermaine?"  I 
asked  him.  "Are  you  speaking  of  her  when  you 
say  that?" 

25 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"I'm  sayin'  nothing  at  all,"  said  he,  "but  what 
any  man  might  be  sayin'  wid  his  eyes  turned  in- 
wards." 

I  offered  him  my  pouch  of  tobacco,  but  he  shook 
his  head,  taking  out  of  his  pocket  a  roll  of  coarse 
twist  from  which,  with  an  old  knife,  he  proceeded 
to  cut  a  piece  off  into  the  horny  palm  of  his  hand. 
This  he  thrust  into  a  remote  corner  of  his  jaw  and 
then  spat  upon  the  ground. 

I  watched  the  far-off  expression  in  his  face  as  he 
turned  the  quid  in  his  mouth.  It  was  true  enough 
what  the  old  woman  on  the  Clogheen  road  had  said. 
He  would  not  tell  his  secrets  even  to  God.  How 
great  a  task  then  lay  before  me  to  persuade  him  to 
tell  them  to  a  foreigner! 

I  felt  no  object  was  to  be  gained  then  by  staying 
there  any  longer.  I  must  get  him  accustomed  to 
talking  to  me  before  I  could  approach  the  subject 
of  Anthony  Sorel  again.  Those  moments  with  him 
were  only  time  wasted.  He  had  been  there  in  that 
cottage  on  the  side  of  Crow  Hill  for  forty  years, 
so  he  told  me — forty  years  off  and-on.  He  was  not 
going  to  leave  it  then.  I  could  visit  him  again.  I 
determined  accordingly  to  climb  up  there  from 
Araglin  every  day — every  day  until  I  had  wooed 
from  his  lips  the  story  I  had  set  myself  to  hear.  I 
was  confident  then  in  the  early  moments  of  my  quest. 
But  little  did  I  know  how  difficult  it  would  be ;  how 
in  the  end,  mere  chance,  rather  than  the  power  of 
my  persuasion,  would  only  wring  it  from  him. 

"Well,"  said  I,  at  last — "I  suppose  I'd  better  be 
26 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

moving  on.  Can  I  miss  my  way  to  Araglin  from 
here?" 

"The  road'll  take  ye,"  said  he — as  if  I  were  a 
child  in  its  arms.  "He  has  a  fine  room  in  the  public- 
house  there.  I've  heard  tell  'tis  an  iron  bed  he  has, 
wid  knobs  av  gold  on  ut  a  man  once  tuk  off  an'  sold 
to  a  tinker  for  a  wealth  uv  money.  But  himself  got 
thim  off  av  him  when  he'd  a  drop  taken  an'  they  in 
the  bag  he  had  in  his  hand." 

I  moved  away,  saying  I  would  tell  the  publican 
who  had  recommended  me  to  his  inn.  I  said  it 
thoughtlessly,  supposing  it  might  mean  a  drink 
for  him  when  he  was  down  that  way.  I  mentioned 
his  name. 

"Who  told  ye  I  was  named  Malachi?"  said  he 
with  quick  suspicion,  and  I  knew  at  once  from  the 
look  in  his  eyes  that  I  had  raised  an  immediate  bar- 
rier of  apprehension  in  his  mind. 

"An  old  woman,"  I  replied — "on  the  road  from 
Clogheen." 

"Wouldn't  I  know  ut!"  he  exclaimed.  "Glory  be 
to  God — isn't  there  more  talk  in  a  woman's  mouth 
'than  ye'd  find  lashins  of  fish  in  the  sey?" 

I  closed  my  lips  and  said  no  more.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  A  little  bridle-path  twisted 
down  to  the  road  I  could  see  winding  away  to  the 
moors  in  the  distance.  Down  that  I  stepped  and 
when  I  had  reached  the  road,  I  looked  back.  He 
was  standing  as  I  had  left  him,  outside  his  door, 
gazing  after  me  with  those  little  eyes  screwed  deep 
into  his  head,  his  red  shirt  flaming  like  a  soldier's 
3  27 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

coat  against  the  deep  green  of  the  heather.  He 
seemed  like  a  mountain  sentry,  guarding  the  gates 
behind  which  lay  that  secret  my  heart  was  now  set 
upon  discovering. 


CHAPTER  III 

IF  you  climb  over  the  high  moorland  that  rises 
straight  up  above  Ballyduff  and  the  river  Black- 
water,  you  will,  after  an  hour's  rough  walking, 
look  down  into  the  green  vale  of  Araglin,  through 
which  the  river  of  that  name  winds  its  way.  Near 
and  beyond  it  on  the  right  rises  the  peak  of  Knock- 
shunahallion,  while  to  the  left,  another  six  miles 
away,  across  a  valley  fed  by  the  river  Funshion, 
stands  Galtymoor,  lifting  its  three  thousand  feet  of 
deep  blue  mountain  into  the  sky. 

Not  in  any  proper  sense  of  the  word  is  Araglin 
a  valley,  but  so  steep  rises  the  moor  and  mountain 
land  about  it  that,  as  you  look  down,  it  seems 
like  a  hidden  emerald  in  the  cup  of  these  giants' 
hands. 

They  have  a  passion  for  names  everywhere  in 
Ireland — a  passion  moreover  they  know  most  poet- 
ically how  to  express.  A  cluster  of  white  and  pink- 
washed  cottages,  scarcely  claiming  the  dignity  of  a 
street,  will  yet  be  given  the  honor  of  a  name  as 
though  it  were  a  village  in  itself.  Such  a  place  was 
Araglin  in  those  days.  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  just 
such  a  place  to-day. 

From  the  top  of  those  moors,  you  could  faintly 
see  that  handful  of  cottages  like  a  cluster  of  peb- 
bles in  the  bed  of  a  stream.  If  of  such  a  place  you 

29 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

can  speak  of  a  population,  then  there  were  a  hundred 
souls — no  more. 

A  blacksmith  with  his  forge  was  there.  There 
was  Foley,  the  publican.  In  one  of  the  cottages 
lived  a  cobbler  who  followed  a  starving  trade.  Only 
the  men  at  work  in  the  fields  and  a  few  of  the 
women  wore  boots  that  came  to  his  last  for  the 
mending.  There  also  stood  alone,  with  all  the  dig- 
nity of  a  two-storied  dwelling,  the  house  where 
Father  Dorgan  lived  at  the  time  of  which  I  write. 

I  have  reason  to  speak  of  this  house  again,  and 
may  well  describe  it.  Baggs'  House  it  was  called, 
from  an  old  man  of  that  name  who  had  built  it. 
There  it  had  stood  for  sixty  years  and  more,  hidden 
away  in  a  group  of  pine  and  oak  trees.  He  had 
cared  little  for  a  view,  it  had  seemed,  still  less  for 
the  open  light  of  day.  The  oak  trees  must  have  been 
there  for  over  a  hundred  years.  He  had  merely 
cleared  a  space  in  the  midst  of  them  and  there  set 
down  his  dwelling-place.  Though  quite  close  to  the 
rest  of  the  cottages  in  Araglin,  it  was  a  lonely  spot. 

All  through  the  winter  days  and  nights,  the  rain 
dropped  from  the  trees  on  to  the  gravel  drive,  then 
green  with  moss  and  the  tufts  of  grass  that  grew 
up  here  and  there.  In  summer  it  was  little  better. 
All  the  sky  was  shut  out,  even  from  the  upper  win- 
dows. The  gaunt,  big  rooms  with  their  high  ceilings 
were  filled  with  an  indescribable  gloom  which  even 
the  light  through  the  abnormally  large  windows 
could  not  disperse. 

The  walls  were  weather-slated  to   the  ground. 

30 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

The  windows  had  gray  shutters  that  once  were 
white.  The  whole  house  seemed  to  have  been  built 
on  land  of  marshy  dampness.  Everything  about  it 
exuded  water.  In  the  rooms  the  faded  paper  was 
peeling  in  places  from  the  walls,  the  ceilings  were 
discolored  and  cracked.  The  knocker  on  the  hall 
door,  the  iron  bell-handle  at  the  side,  the  metal  slit 
of  the  letter-box,  the  scraper  on  the  ground,  they 
were  all  rusty,  and  the  moss  grew  even  in  the  cracks 
of  the  great  slab  of  stone  that  served  as  a  doorstep. 

Father  Dorgan  cared  little  enough  for  these  signs 
of  decay.  He  cared  no  more  for  the  unenviable 
reputation  that  clung  to  his  house  itself.  It  was 
haunted,  they  said.  There  were  those  in  Araglin 
— old  people  it  is  true,  to  whom  maybe  visions  come 
easily — who  had  seen  the  ghost  of  Simon  Baggs, 
with  his  full-bottomed  coat  and  the  stock  about  his 
neck,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  from  the  front  door 
of  his  house  to  the  iron  gate  that  opened  on  to  the 
drive  from  the  road. 

I  can  well  imagine  the  specter.  I  have  approached 
that  rusty  black  gate  at  night  time,  making  my  way 
to  the  house,  and  with  but  the  gentlest  flight  of 
fancy  could  believe  I  saw  between  the  twisted  bars 
that  square  set  face — so  they  describe  him — the 
beetled  brows  behind  which  the  little  eyes  shone  cun- 
ning and  clear.  Often  as  I  have  waited  on  that  moss- 
covered  doorstep,  waiting  for  the  untidy  servant  to 
open  the  door  to  my  ringing,  I  have  almost  felt  con- 
scious of  his  presence  in  the  dark  avenue  of  trees. 
While  the  old  bell  has  jangled  through  the  hollow 

31 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

house  to  a  heavy  silence,  I  have  almost  believed  I 
heard  his  footsteps  on  the  sodden  gravel  drive  and 
have  waited  with  an  unnatural  eagerness  for  the 
door  to  be  opened,  giving  me  the  warm  comfort  of 
the  light  within. 

Here  it  was  then  that  Father  Dorgan  lived,  and 
from  him,  in  that  lofty  dining-room  of  his,  after  his 
evening  meal,  when  the  fire  was  lighted  and  glasses 
of  hot  punch  stood  between  lighted  candles,  steam- 
ing before  us  on  the  table,  I  learnt  somewhat  of 
Anthony  Sorel,  but  not  that  secret  for  which  I 
sought. 

But  before  I  can  come  to  this  part  of  my  story, 
I  must  speak  first  of  Foley's  public-house  where  I 
remained  all  the  time  I  was  at  Araglin. 

Tom  Foley  was  not  a  prepossessing  man.  Like 
Simon  Baggs'  house  he  needed  the  light  of  day. 
Malachi  once  said  of  him  to  me,  "The  sun  never 
shines  through  the  windows  of  his  soul."  It  was 
true.  No  one  had  ever  seen  him  out  in  the  open 
air.  From  the  time  he  rose  in  the  morning  until 
the  hour  when  he  went  to  bed,  he  never  crossed 
the  threshold  of  his  bar  parlor.  There  he  took  his 
meals ;  there  he  sat  all  day  and  talked  and  was  never 
wanting  for  company. 

I  found  him  that  morning  leaning  over  the  bar  in 
the  parlor,  his  bloodless  face  quite  expressionless  as 
he  listened  to  the  conversation  of  three  men.  One 
was  the  driver  of  a  donkey  butt  which,  with  its  load 
of  glittering  sprats,  he  had  driven  all  the  way  from 
Ardmore.  It  was  standing  outside  the  door  as  I 

32 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

came  in.     The  two  other  men  were  laborers  from 
the  fields,  the  earth  thick-caked  upon  their  boots. 

As  I  entered,  the  man  from  Ardmore  was  describ- 
ing a  haul  of  mackerel  he  had  seen  the  fishermen 
make  in  Ardmore  Bay.  All  the  wealth  of  language 
and  richness  of  exaggeration  by  which  in  Ireland 
they  do  make  speech  so  real  a  thing,  was  swelling 
from  his  lips. 

"The  gulls  had  been  cruishting  outside  all  day," 
he  was  saying — "an  bi  evenin',  there  they  were  in, 
the  bay,  lashin'  the  water,  an'  it  black  wid  the  tails 
av  thim  and  they  turnin'  over  an'  over — shure 
couldn't  I  see  thim  myself,  glitterin'  there  like  a 
woman's  body  an'  she  buried  in  jools,  the  way  Shaw- 
neen,  whin  he  made  the  gold  in  America,  tuk  one  o' 
thim  bad  women  and  drowned  her  in  pearls." 

As  though  suddenly  aware  of  the  presence  of  a 
stranger,  his  voice  dropped  on  the  last  words  almost 
to  a  whisper.  He  stopped  speaking  and  they  all 
turned  round. 

UA  man  named  Malachi,"  said  I — "on  Crow  Hill, 
told  me  you  had  a  room  here  where  I  could  put  up 
for  a  night  or  two." 

"Is  ut  the  man  who  has  great  talk  about  the 
faeries?"  asked  the  one  who  came  from  Ardmore. 
"Him  havin'  the  story  of  the  old  woman  who 
showed  him  his  mother,  an'  she  burnin'  in  Hell?" 

"Is  ut  the  old  fella  beyond,  wearin'  a  red  shirt 
he  got  off  a  tinker  woman  comin'  out  of  Dingar- 
vin?" 

They  all  asked  questions  about  Malachi.    Not  one 
33 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  them  seemed  concerned  with  what  I  wanted,  least 
of  all  the  publican  himself. 

When  I  had  satisfied  them  who  my  informant  was, 
I  inquired  of  Foley  if  it  were  true  h'e  had  a  room 
to  let. 

"I  have  indeed,"  said  he,  but  made  no  movement 
to  show  me  where  it  was  or  to  get  to  business.  He 
still  leaned  there  over  the  dirty  counter  of  his  bar 
and  stared  at  me  with  curious  eyes.  The  others 
drank  their  porter  and  stared  at  me  as  well. 

"Well — could  I  see  it?"  I  inquired. 

"Ye  cannot,"  said  he. 

"It's  not  to  let  then?" 

"It  is  indeed — shure  aren't  I  just  after  sayin'  so." 

"Well,"  said  I— "I  should  like  to  see  it  if  I  could." 

"An'  I'm  tellin'  ye,  ye  can't,"  he  replied. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  there's  an  old  sow  been  havin'  a  litter 
of  fourteen  there  last  week  and  the  good  'ooman 
has  not  had  the  inclination  to  tidy  up  the  place  since. 
I'll  set  herself  on  to  ut  now  and  'twill  be  ready  for 
ye  in  an  hour's  time." 

It  was  not  a  cheerful  prospect,  but  I  had  to  make 
myself  content  with  it.  No  other  place  was  possible 
in  Araglin  and  whatever  it  proved  to  be,  I  knew  I 
should  have  to  be  satisfied. 

The  building  itself  was  long,  low  and  one- 
storied.  No  painted  sign  was  there  outside  to 
attract  the  unsuspecting  traveler.  Doubtless  it  once 
had  been  a  row  of  cottages  and,  with  the  monopoly 
of  the  trade,  had  grown  into  one  establishment. 

34 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Father  Dorgan's  was  the  only  two-storied  house  in 
the  neighborhood.  Even  the  constabulary  where  the 
two  policemen  dwelt,  was  a  thatched  cottage,  rising 
not  more  than  one  floor  from  the  ground. 

For  that  hour,  whilst  the  good  woman  was  over- 
coming her  disinclination  to  tidiness  and  my  room 
was  being  made  ready  for  me,  I  wandered  about  the 
village. 

On  the  banks  of  the  river  Araglin,  I  found  the 
whole  constabulary,  the  two  policemen,  responsible 
for  law  and  order,  fishing  for  trout  in  the  brown 
waters  of  that  little  rushing  stream.  Both  eyed 
me,  not  with  suspicion,  but  with  a  candid,  village 
curiosity.  Araglin  sees  few  travelers.  Few 
strangers  ever  come  that  way. 

A  little  further  on  beyond  the  village,  I  saw  the 
figure  of  a  priest  walking  before  me  on  the  same 
bank  of  the  river.  I  knew  it  must  be  Father  Dorgan. 
He  was  reading  his  morning  office,  but  before  I  came 
up  with  him,  the  task  was  finished.  I  saw  him  put 
the  book  away  in  his  pocket. 

Here  was  a  man,  I  thought,  who  no  doubt  could 
help  me  in  my  quest.  The  parish  priest  in  Ireland 
knows  his  people  as  well  as  he  knows  the  well- 
thumbed  pages  of  his  breviary. 

"Good  morning,  father,"  said  I. 

He  turned  more  quickly  than  seemed  natural  to 
his  mood  at  the  sound  of  a  strange  voice. 

"Good  morning  to  ye,"  said  he  and  immediately 
his  curiosity  got  the  better  of  him.  "You're  a 
stranger  in  these  parts,"  he  added. 

35 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

I  was,  I  told  him.  I  said  at  once  I  came  from 
London. 

"  'Tis  a  great  place,"  said  he.  "Is  ut  the  way 
ye're  goin'  to  Ballyduff  over  for  the  fishin'  ?" 

"No,"  said  I — "I'm  not  a  fisherman.  I'm  just 
going  to  stay  for  a  bit  at  the  inn  here,  if  they  can 
put  me  up." 

"Oh — shure,  Foley'll  see  to  that,"  said  he  with 
a  humorous  knowledge  of  the  man.  "He'd  put  up 
the  King  himself  an'  feed  him  on  ham  an'  eggs 
rather  than  miss  a  bit  of  money." 

I  felt  in  the  way  he  said  it,  that  he  had  spoken 
of  the  King  for  my  benefit,  to  please  me  because  he 
knew  I  was  an  Englishman.  Had  I  been  one  with 
a  brogue  from  Dublin,  he  would  have  spoken  of  the 
Pope,  maybe. 

In  swift  moments  during  the  silence  that  followed, 
I  stole  quick  glances  at  him  while  we  walked  to- 
gether, just  as  I  knew  he  was  taking  his  stock  of  me. 

He  was  a  thin,  spare  man.  Large-boned  he  was, 
with  big,  nervous-looking  hands  and  high  cheek 
bones,  throwing  deep  shadows  into  the  hollows  be- 
low. His  eyes  were  gray  and  set  far  back  beneath 
the  overhanging  brows.  He  gave  me  the  impression 
that  he  fasted  often  and  was  given  much  to  the 
chastisement  of  his  body  and  his  soul.  I  could 
imagine  him,  like  monks  of  old,  inflicting  upon  him- 
self the  pains  of  flagellation,  beating  himself  as  he 
said  his  prayers. 

What  he  found  in  me,  I  cannot  say,  but  without 
conceit,  I  think  I  am  right  in  believing  that  from 

36 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

the  moment  of  our  short  conversation  that  morning, 
he  took  a  quiet  fancy  to  me. 

"How  long  are  ye  goin'  to  stay  in  Araglin?"  he 
asked  me  presently. 

I  admitted  the  truth.  I  did  not  know.  It  all 
depended  so  much  upon  the  success  of  my  quest. 

"And  shure  what  brought  ye  to  this  shtrip  of 
God's  earth?"  said  he,  smiling,  it  seemed  to  me,  in 
order  to  conceal  his  curiosity. 

"I  was  told  I  should  find  an  inn  here  where  I  could 
put  up." 

"Who  told  ye?" 

"An  old  man  up  in  the  mountains  there — a  man 
named  Malachi." 

"Malachi — living  on  Crow  Hill!  Glory  be  to 
God,  shure  there's  a  strange  wan  for  ye !  Ye  don't 
find  the  likes  of  him  walking  down  the  Shtrand  in 
London." 

I  laughed. 

"He's  an  interesting  old  man,"  said  I. 

Father  Dorgan's  face  assumed  a  serious  expres- 
sion. His  eyes,  as  Malachi  had  said  to  me,  in  that 
moment  were  looking  inwards. 

"Away  in  the  mountains  here,"  he  said  presently 
— "and  in  all  the  mountains  in  the  west,  ye'll  find 
many  a  man  like  Malachi.  Yeer  advanced  doctor, 
he'd  say  they  were  mad.  Shure,  bring  them  down 
into  the  cities  and  'tis  mad  they  are.  But  up  there 
in  the  mists,  in  their  lonely  cottages,  there's  a  queer 
kind  of  wisdom  about  thim,  the  way  they'd  know 
"rhings  it  'ud  seem  strange  for  any  human  man  to 

37 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

get  a  hold  of.  He's  traveled,  mind  ye,  that  old 
man.  Many's  the  season  he's  been  harvesting  in 
Wales  across  the  water.  There's  not  a  word  he  can 
read  or  can  write,  but  he'll  tell  ye  tales  he  might 
have  ransacked  the  libraries  of  Europe  for,  if  ye'll 
give  him  a  drop  of  whisky  to  warm  up  the  blood  in 
his  veins.  Oh — shure  he's  mad  and  there  are  times, 
mind  ye,  when  I'd  be  as  mad  meself  if  by  that  I  could 
see  the  things  he  has  the  power  of  seeing." 

"What  things?" 

I  was  as  ready  to  be  curious  as  he.  For  it  was 
not  only  what  he  said,  but  the  lowering  of  his  voice 
to  a  note  of  suggestive  suppression  my  ears  were 
only  too  eager  to  receive. 

When  he  did  not  answer,  I  asked  again. 

"What  things?" 

He  looked  up  at  me  with  a  slow  smile — a  smile, 
characteristic  of  him,  which  never  seemed  really  to 
fulfill  its  first  intention,  but  died  away  before  it  had 
suggested  laughter. 

"Have  ye  ever  been  to  this  country  before?"  he 
inquired. 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

"But  ye  live  in  London?" 

"Yes." 

"Well — there's  not  much  ye'd  understand  if  I 
were  to  tell  ye  a  half  of  the  things  that  old  man  can 
see  with  his  two  eyes  shut." 

"Do  you  fancy  me  incapable  of  thinking  that 
those  are  the  things  worth  seeing?"  I  asked. 

He  stopped  a  moment  as  we  walked  and  stood 
38 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

gazing  across  at  the  mountains,  then  turned  sharply 
and  looked  at  me. 

"Ye  do  think  that?" 

"I  do,"  said  I,  falling  easily  into  that  habit  of 
speech  in  Ireland  which  neither  allows  of  yes  or  no. 

"Come  round  one  evening  while  ye're  here,"  said 
he — "an'  have  a  talk  with  me.  Just  drop  in." 

By  now  we  were  standing  on  the  rough  stone 
bridge  that  spans  the  river,  carrying  the  road  from 
the  south  up  into  the  mountains.  Before  I  had 
time  to  thank  him  for  the  invitation,  he  had  left  me. 
With  long,  slouching  paces  he  was  striding  up  the 
road,  his  head  dropped  between  his  shoulders  as 
one,  not  only  who  thinks  and  reads,  but  carries  his 
thoughts  with  him  wherever  he  goes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  an  hour's  time  the  room  at  Foley's  was  ready 
for  me,  Mrs.  Foley  herself  took  me  in  charge 
and  brought  me  to  the  door  of  it,  explaining 
in  a  ceaseless  flow  of  conversation  how  it  was  not 
usual  for  them  to  have  strangers  coming  that  way 
for  whom  they  had  to  prepare  the  room  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice. 

Indeed  that  sudden  preparation  had  put  her  in 
none  the  best  of  tempers.  She  was  prepared  for 
immediate  aggression.  I  was  obliged  to  pick  my 
words.  As  she  flung  open  the  door,  she  gave  me 
to  understand  that  if  by  word  or  look  I  showed  I 
did  not  like  the  room — always  the  room,  as  though 
it  were  a  state  apartment — then  I  might  go  else- 
where and  waste  no  time  about  it. 

But — "  'tis  aiqual  to  the  deuce,"  said  she — 
"whether  ye  like  it  or  not." 

This  was  what  she  said  as  she  flung  open  the  door. 
It  was,  I  felt  sure,  a  sensitive  apprehension  that 
brought  about  this  aggressiveness  in  her.  I  was 
English.  For  all  she  knew  I  might  be  accustomed 
to  the  most  luxurious  style  of  living  and  were  I  to 
express  an  opinion  reflecting  upon  her  pride,  she 
would  no  longer  have  had  any  occasion  for  me. 

This  is  the  pride  of  all  these  people.  Poor,  un- 
tidy, wanting  even  in  cleanliness  and  with  no  pos- 

40 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

sessions  of  which  to  boast,  they  are  yet  intensely 
proud — kings  and  queens  of  an  impoverished  mon- 
archy. So  far  as  one  can  find  justification  for  it, 
it  is  true  pride;  not  that  of  purse  or  of  possession, 
but  a  pride  in  themselves  and  always  apprehensive 
of  injury. 

She  stood  there  regarding  me  in  readiness  for  a 
rebuff  as  I  looked  round  the  room.  There  was  the 
bed  Malachi  had  spoken  of,  doubtless  an 
inspiring  piece  of  furniture  to  them  in  Araglin, 
though  I  could  not  believe  how  anyone  had  ever 
found  it  worth  while  to  steal  those  lacquered  brass 
knobs  that  adorned  it.  A  piece  of  carpet,  thread- 
bare and  long  won;  'in  holes,  partly  covered  the 
floor.  The  washstand,  the  dressing-table,  the  chest 
of  drawers,  they  were  of  plain  varnished  deal. 
There  was  no  fireplace.  Above  the  window  hung 
tattered  lace  curtains,  in  places  rent,  with  jagged 
edges.  There  was  no  blind. 

"Well — this  will  do  splendidly,"  said  I — "it's  an 
excellent  bed." 

'Tis  a  feather  mattrass,"  said  she  more  genially. 
"Shure,  'twas  I  brought  it  out  of  Dingarvin  whin 
I  was  married  to  himself." 

"I'm  sure  it'll  be  very  comfortable,"  I  replied 
amiably. 

"Well — it  is  then.  Haven't  I  slept  on  it  times  and 
again  whin  himself  had  a  drop  taken  an'  he  kickin' 
me  out  av  me  own  bed.  They  say  'tis  the  way 
thim  mattrasses  -do  be  harborin'  the  insects,  shure 
I  wouldn't  believe  it  at  all.  It  wasn't  many  I 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

found  on  that  wan  and  there  am  I  tellin'  ye  now." 
I  thanked  her  for  her  candid  information  as  best 
I  could  and  thereby  made  another  friend  in  Araglin. 
Once  having  passed  the  ordeal  of  my  approval,  she 
became  kindness  itself.  There  was  nothing  that  she 
would  not  do  for  me.  Indeed  for  many  a  long  day 
shall  I  carry  in  my  mind  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Tom 
Foley.  She  was  a  buxom  woman,  though  energetic 
enough,  with  all  the  abundance  of  flesh  God  had 
given  her  to  carry.  Her  little  eyes,  half  opened,  as 
though  at  birth  the  eyelids  had  never  properly  been 
parted,  were  full  of  twinkling  good  humor.  She 
was,  I  think,  the  plainest  woman  I  have  ever  seen. 
Those  little  eyes  of  hers,  so  crudely  set  beneath  a 
shapeless  forehead,  were  like  the  eyes  of  a  pig, 
half  mischievous,  half  cunning.  Her  voice  was  the 
most  raucous  thing  in  women  I  have  ever  heard.  To 
add  to  the  penetrating  power  of  it,  it  was  high- 
pitched  and,  as  one  who  drives  in  nails,  she  ham- 
mered it  relentlessly  upon  your  ears. 

But  with  all  these  disadvantages,  she  was  a  homely 
creature,  given  to  gossip  as  all  of  them  are,  to  spite- 
ful gossip  when  her  temper  was  roused;  but  a  good 
friend  and  generous  with  it  all  to  those  who  found 
favor  in  her  eyes. 

I  have  taken  some  pains  to  describe  her  because 
if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  practical  aspect  of 
life  in  Ireland,  it  is  women  like  Mrs.  Tom  Foley 
who  represent  it.  She  stands  out  in  my  mind  in 
violent  contrast  to  the  lonely  figure  of  that  old  man 
up  in  the  mountains,  even  to  the  quiet  figure  of 

42 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Father  Dorgan  who,  had  it  not  been  for  his  faith, 
would  have  been  as  much  a  visionary  as  any. 

Greatly  as  all  this  may  seem  to  be  digressive,  it  is 
in  reality  no  departure  from  my  story.  Conditions 
of  life  in  Araglin  then,  were  much  the  same  as  when 
Anthony  Sorel  lived  in  his  little  one-roomed  cottage 
on  the  side  of  Knockshunahallion  and  came  down 
the  mountain  road  into  the  village  to  buy  such  food 
as  he  needed. 

As  I  have  heard  from  all  those  who  saw  him,  it 
was  often  only  bread  he  bought.  Cronin  was  the 
baker  in  those  days,  but  he  had  been  dead  some 
many  years,  the  cottage  and  little  bakehouse  pass- 
ing into  the  hands  of  Wolsey,  his  successor. 

But  even  on  that  first  day  of  my  arrival,  I  found 
one,  an  ex-policeman,  living  on  his  pension  in  a  little 
cottage  at  the  end  of  the  village,  who  had  seen 
Anthony  Sorel  many  times  on  those  occasions  when 
he  came  down  from  the  mountains. 

From  him  I  received  my  first  description  of  An- 
thony Sorel's  appearance.  Together  with  other 
sources  of  information,  I  have  pieced  together  a 
picture  in  my  mind,  the  accuracy  of  which  I,  at  least, 
am  content  with. 

At  the  time  that  he  must  first  have  met  Anna 
Quartermaine,  he  was  still  a  young  man,  not  more 
than  thirty-seven  at  the  utmost. 

"But  I've  seen  older  men  with  less  years  on  their 
backs,"  said  the  ex-sergeant,  describing  the  appear- 
ance of  his  age  to  me. 

I  can  quite  understand  how  he  did  not  carry  him- 
4  43 


self  to  the  full  height  of  his  five  foot  eleven.  This 
exact  measurement  I  had  on  good  authority.  He 
was  not  a  small  man.  But  what  I  have  said  of 
Father  Dorgan,  could  doubly  have  applied  to 
Anthony  Sorel.  His  thoughts,  his  imaginations,  his 
belief  in  faeries,  these  alone  he  lived  with,  carry- 
ing them  with  him  wherever  he  went.  His  figure 
too  was  slim,  not  exactly  wasted  in  any  sense,  but 
with  that  slightness  of  body  which  tells  of  an  ever- 
consuming  fire  within. 

:  'Twas  himself  burnt  the  candle  of  his  soul,"  one 
old  man  said  to  me  and  well  I  can  understand  the 
expressiveness  of  that  phrase. 

The  color  of  him  was  dark,  his  black  hair,  as  one 
may  well  suppose  with  such  limited  conveniences  as 
Araglin  could  afford,  untidy,  long  even,  and  un- 
kempt. The  tone  of  his  skin  was  pale,  no  color  in 
his  cheeks;  but  not  as  in  one  who  suffers  from  ill- 
health. 

"Is  ut  suffer  wid  his  health,"  said  one  to  me — 
"an'  he  livin'  like  a  goat  on  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tains?" 

I  can  quite  believe  he  was  strong  and  healthy 
enough.  That  burning  candle  of  his  soul  consumed 
the  heat  of  blood  in  him.  Our  country  people  in 
England,  living  such  open  lives  as  this,  have  no 
emotions  of  the  mind  upon  which  their  blood 
may  spend  its  warmth.  Their  cheeks  are  apple  red. 
They  go  to  their  sleep  at  nights  with  easy  souls 
and  minds  untroubled  by  the  lightless  skies.  It  is 
not  this  way  with  those  who  live  in  such  fashion  in 

44 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Ireland.  There  was  not  one  of  those  people  in  the 
mountains,  unless  here  a  young  girl  or  there  a  young 
man,  who  showed  a  pair  of  rosy  cheeks  all  weather- 
burnt  with  glowing  health.  Yet  they  are  strong 
enough  and  perhaps  a  thousand  times  more  tenacious 
of  life. 

This  I  imagine  was  the  condition  of  Anthony 
Sorel.  Because  his  cheeks  were  thin  and  pale,  I  do 
not  suppose  him  one  of  fragile  health.  I  have  seen 
the  cottage,  now  roofless  and  windowless,  where  he 
lived  and  there,  in  the  teeth  of  the  countless  winds 
of  God's  heavens,  it  would  have  been  hard  for  any 
man  to  have  suffered  in  his  body  and  have  lived. 

His  eyes,  they  told  me,  these  were  the  most  strik- 
ing feature  he  possessed,  and  that  I  can  imagine  well. 
Some  eyes  are  dull  and  almost  lifeless ;  some  sparkle 
to  the  healthy  blood  that  rushes  through  the  veins. 
There  are  eyes  that  shine,  all  brilliant  with  their 
own  intelligence.  But  the  eyes  of  Anthony  Sorel  held 
never  the  same  light  from  one  day  to  another.  They 
burnt  as  they  looked  outwards.  They  slumbered 
as  they  gazed  within. 

"I've  seen  him  look,"  the  old  sergeant  said  to 
me — "the  way  ye'd  think  he  was  pickin'  the  soul  out 
av  ye  wid  the  point  of  a  pin;  an'  I've  seen  him  look, 
the  way  ye'd  feel  ye  might  be  gone,  dead  and  buried, 
for  all  he'd  know  ye  were  there  at  all." 

From  such  descriptions  as  these  it  is,  that  I  have 
gathered  and  pieced  together  in  my  mind  a  picture 
of  Anthony  Sorel,  convincing  enough,  indeed  indel- 
ible to  me. 

45 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

His  forehead  may  have  been  high,  but  that  black 
hair  in  loosened  locks  mostly  covered  it.  I  do  not 
imagine  his  face  to  have  been  of  that  order  one 
speaks  of  as  intelligent.  It  was  long  from  the  eyes 
to  the  chin.  The  mouth  was  so  sensitive,  I  can  well 
conceive  of  the  temerity  of  those  who  spoke  with 
him.  But  it  was  a  wonderful  face,  they  have  told 
me.  Tenderness  and  understanding  were  all  alive 
in  it  when  his  mind  was  not  occupied  with  that  mys- 
terious aloofness  which  seemed  to  erect  an  insur- 
mountable barrier  between  himself  and  those  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact. 

One  interesting  thing,  the  old  sergeant  said  to 
me.  In  all  the  investigations  I  made  regarding  the 
life  and  death  of  Anthony  Sorel  in  Ireland,  I  remem- 
bered it  best  of  all. 

"What  was  on  him  at  all,"  said  he,  "for  him  to 
be  takin'  the  knife  to  her?  Shure  he  wouldn't  have 
taken  a  green  linnet  out  of  its  nest — that  was  the 
way  wid  him." 

Unhappily  it  must  be  said  that  amongst  the  Irish 
people,  kindness  to  animals  and  birds  is  the  extreme 
proof  of  gentleness.  In  those  parts — I  cannot  speak 
of  others — they  think  nothing  of  taking  a  linnet 
from  its  nest  as  it  sits  bravely  and  fearlessly  upon 
the  eggs.  Once  caught,  they  put  it  in  a  cage  using 
it  as  a  snare  to  catch  its  mate.  It  would  even  amaze 
them  to  hear  that  that  was  cruelty. 

The  sergeant  truly  thought  him  a  gentle  creature 
when  he  admitted  that. 

"It  was  with  a  knife  he  killed  her  then?"  I  asked. 
46 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Shure  it  was  av  course  and  he  with  fingers  like 
the  strings  av  Patsy  Troy's  fiddle,  the  way  ye'd  think 
they  could  speak  if  they  touched  ye.  Faith  if  he 
took  hold  of  a  bubble,  he  wouldn't  break  ut." 

This  was  another  little  feature  to  add  to  my  mind 
portrait  of  Anthony  Sorel.  Fingers  like  fiddle 
strings!  It  is  expressive  in  its  way.  I  can  see  the 
sensitive  hands  which  that  simile  brings  so  vividly  to 
my  mind.  White  as  a  woman's  perhaps,  tender 
and  gentle  too.  Hands  that  were  all  a  part  of  the 
expression  of  intense  refinement  in  him.  If  he  took 
hold  of  a  bubble,  the  sergeant  said,  he  would  not 
break  it.  I  can  well  imagine  them  giving  that  im- 
pression to  a  man  of  his  superficial  observation. 
But  I  can  see  the  nervous  strength  in  them  too,  the 
emotional  power  which,  under  the  stress  of  passion, 
could  well  commit  the  deed  of  which  he  was  accused 
and  convicted;  for  which  he  suffered  the  utmost 
penalty  of  the  law. 

"You're  all  sure  he  killed  her  then,"  said  I,  pres- 
ently. 

"Shure,  wasn't  he  tried  at  the  Cork  Assizes  and 
didn't  they  hang  him  up  at  the  jail  there  along  by 
the  Western  Road?  Haven't  I  seen  the  place  my- 
self? Did  ye  think  ut  was  the  way  the  faeries  had 
taken  her?" 

He  put  this  last  question  to  me  with  a  laugh.  In 
the  capacity  of  a  late  member  of  the  force,  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  such  stories  as  that  and  would 
let  me  know  it.  But  when  I  did  not  join  in  his 
laughter,  when  he  saw  the  still  serious  expression  in 

47 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

my  eyes,  the  Celt  in  him  rose  uppermost.  The 
laughter  fell  from  his  lips  and  he  leant  across  to  me. 

"I  met  a  woman  once,  mind  ye,"  said  he,  lower- 
ing his  voice — "an'  she  after  walking  all  the  ways 
out  of  Ballyduff.  'Twas  herself  told  me  she'd  seen 
Anna  Quartermaine  on  a  May  Eve.  The  mists  were 
over  Ballysaggartmore  and  there  were  the  cows 
standin'  out  in  the  fields  the  way  she  couldn't  see 
their  feet  an'  they  up  to  their  knees  in  the  white 
water  of  the  mist  like  as  they'd  be  standin'  in  a 
stream.  An'  didn't  she  have  to  take  her  ways 
across  the  fields,  not  seeing  her  feet  beneath 
her  as  she  put  them  down  and  with  the  heart  beat- 
ing in  her  because  it  was  May  Eve  an'  after  dark 
— the  night  when  the  faeries  are  out,  singing  up 
in  the  mountains  an'  dancing  down  the  boreens. 
'Twas  she  heard  the  voice  of  someone  singing — and 
there's  a  woman,  mind  ye,  who'd  tell  no  lies.  'Twas 
singin',  she  said,  like  ye'd  'tice  sleep  out  av  a  child. 
And  there  up  against  the  flank  of  one  of  the  cows 
sat  herself,  milking  the  beast  an'  she  croonin'  all 
the  whiles  to  herself.  It  was  as  if  the  mist  rose  up 
all  round  her  and  made  a  dress  for  her  to  clothe 
herself  in  and  there  was  drops  of  dew  in  her  hair 
that  shone  like  rubies  and  emeralds  in  the  light  of 
the  moon.  Wisha,  I  dunno  did  she  see  it  at  all,  but 
there  was  a  woman  who  told  no  lies  before  or  since, 
an'  she  goin'  to  Mass  every  Sunday  in  Ballysaggart- 
more." 

"You  do  believe  in  faeries  then?"  I  asked,  for  his 
voice  had  come  to  that  whisper  when  a  man  believes 

48 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

the  truth  of  all  he  says  as  though  it  were  the  inspired 
word  of  God. 

"I  do  not,"  said  he.  "Shure  why  would  I  be- 
lieve in  faeries,  an'  I  drawing  me  pension  from  the 
Gover'ment  like  an  honest  man?" 

I  could  not  help  smiling.  It  was  no  longer  the 
Celt  who  spoke.  Officialdom  will  kill  even  the  spirit 
of  the  race  in  man.  This  was  the  price  of  his 
pension. 

Here  then  I  have  tried  to  convey  the  portrait  of 
Anthony  Sorel  that  is  so  plainly  set  before  my  mind. 
No  picture  of  him  that  I  have  ever  heard  of  is  in 
existence.  I  have  had  to  content  myself  with  the 
gleanings  from  the  observations  of  others,  and  these, 
with  no  reservations,  I  have  written  into  the  text 
of  this  story,  which  surely  no  other  country  btit 
Ireland  could  ever  have  made. 


CHAPTER  V 

EARLY  the  next  morning,  I  took  the  mountain 
road  and  went  in  search  of  Malachi. 

The  day  had  broken  with  all  the  riches  of 
brilliant  sunshine,  but  before  long,  out  of  the  south- 
west rode  a  fleet  of  clouds.  They  moved  like  ships 
of  war  in  battle  array.  The  foremost  of  them 
as  they  came,  swept  their  shadows  down  the  moun- 
tainsides like  the  colored  raiment  a  magician  flings 
and  flings  again  distractingly  before  your  eyes.  I 
never  felt  so  much  as  then,  the  living  things  that 
mountains  are,  with  moods  and  fancies  in  such 
bewildering  variety. 

As  with  a  woman,  never  are  they  wholly  revealed. 
The  most  searching  light  of  sun,  the  clearest  and 
most  cloudless  sky  cannot  disclose  all  the  secrets  they 
contain.  Never  do  they  stand  forth  entirely  robbed 
of  mystery.  With  shadows  one  peak  will  protect 
another  as  with  a  thousand  subtleties  a  woman  will 
protect  her  sex.  Always  there  is  some  ravine,  some 
deep  abyss  the  sun  can  never  penetrate. 

I  watched  the  light  that  morning  come  and  go  as 
I  walked  up  the  mountain  road.  In  its  most  brilliant 
illumination,  as  in  its  deepest  shadow,  it  was  always 
the  same;  there  was  an  emotional  sense  of  mystery 
in  that  world  of  solitude,  no  process  of  the  mind 
could  explain  away. 

50 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Then,  as  I  walked,  I  set  to  wondering  whether  I 
could  find  in  the  never-expressed  recesses  of  my  con- 
science, that  real  belief  in  faeries  and  the  spirits  of 
the  other  world.  But  they  were  too  intangible  to  me 
then. 

By  the  time  I  had  reached  the  foot  of  Crow  Hill 
and  it  became  necessary  for  me  to  leave  the  road, 
taking  to  the  little  path  that  made  its  way  through 
the  heather,  the  fleet  of  clouds  had  gathered  into 
rain.  A  thin  mist  was  blowing  like  puffs  of  smoke 
across  the  mountains.  Knockshunahallion  was  now 
hidden,  now  in  sight  as  if  in  moments  it  spoke  and 
then  again  was  wrapped  in  some  silent  contemplation 
within  itself.  So  after  some  days  in  that  part  of  the 
world,  I  came  to  the  understanding  of  how  the 
mountains  and  the  trees,  the  streams  and  lakes  can 
all  speak  to  one — speech  like  the  discourse  of  a  close 
and  understanding  friend  who  talks  of  things  nearest 
to  the  unspoken  secrets  of  one's  soul  and  can  fall 
into  that  truest  silence  with  its  utter  absence  of  intru- 
sion upon  all  one's  thoughts. 

Reaching  my  destination,  I  found  the  old  man, 
Malachi,  digging  in  the  patch  of  ground  beside  his 
cottage.  As  soon  as  he  heard  my  footsteps  ap- 
proaching, he  ceased  from  his  labor  and  leant  heav- 
ily upon  his  spade,  watching  me  as  I  came  up  the 
path. 

"Well — I  find  the  inn  very  comfortable,"  said  I — 
"thanks  to  your  recommendation.  It's  a  great  bed, 
that  bed  with  the  brass  knobs." 

"I  niver  seen  it  meself,"  said  he  guardedly. 

51 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

It  was  the  way  he  spoke,  as  much  as  the  way 
he  looked  at  me  that  for  one  instant  made  me  feel 
ashamed  of  the  part  I  was  playing.  I  was  there 
to  steal  a  secret  from  him,  a  secret  he  would  not 
confide  to  God  Himself  and  I  felt  the  unconscious 
resentment  in  him  against  my  presence  there.  What 
right,  I  asked  myself,  was  with  me  in  the  purpose 
of  my  mind?  The  secret,  if  indeed  he  possessed  it, 
was  his.  His  jealous  guarding  of  it  was  a  proof  of 
what  it  meant  to  him. 

For  when  once  a  secret  is  spoken,  it  plays  no 
longer  any  part  in  the  life  of  him  who  held  it.  The 
very  words  that  tell  it,  are  the  broken  atoms  it 
becomes. 

Should  I  go  back,  relinquishing  my  quest?  Should 
I  let  it  for  ever  be  the  mystery  it  was  to  me;  believ- 
ing, when  the  mood  would  have  it  so,  that  the  faeries 
had  taken  Anna  Quartermaine  or  in  another  humor, 
seeing  it  merely  the  outburst  of  passion  in  a  criminal 
mind?  Why  was  I  not  content  with  the  mere  knowl- 
edge that  Anthony  Sorel  had  killed  her,  content  as 
others  were  to  whose  knowledge  the  fact  had  chanced 
to  come? 

In  those  moments  of  a  pricking  conscience,  I  asked 
myself  these  questions;  for  then  I  could  see  myself 
as  a  common  journalist,  picking  the  souls  of  others 
for  my  daily  bread.  But  it  was  no  good  asking 
them.  I  was  not  content.  Some  hidden  purpose, 
foreign  to  all  gain,  seemed  there  to  be  served  if  I 
could  but  prosper.  I  had  gone  too  far  in  my  search. 
It  had  become  impossible  to  turn  back  then.  I  put 

52 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

the  mood  away  and  talked  to  Malachi  about  him- 
self. 

It  was  early  Spring  then.  He  was  preparing  the 
patch  of  ground  for  his  potatoes. 

"Do  you  eat  much  meat?"  I  asked  him,  curious 
in  mind  about  his  ways  of  living. 

"Meat?"  He  looked  at  me  with  his  little  eyes. 
"Where  -would  I  be  eatin'  meat?" 

"None  at  all?" 

"Sometimes  they  give  me  a  pig's  cheek  salted  and 
I'd  be  eatin'  a  bit  o'  that." 

I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  buy  fish  from  the  men 
who  came  round  with  their  donkey  butts. 

"There  was  a  man  down  there  in  Araglin,"  I  told 
him,  "who  came  from  Ardmore  with  sprats." 

"I  haven't  tasted  fish  these  tin  years,"  he  replied, 
"  'cept  on  Good  Fridays  when  I'd  be  makin'  a 
meal  for  meself  an'  havin'  a  piece  of  ling.  Shure 
where  would  I  be  gettin'  the  copper  money  to  buy 
fish  from  thim  fellas?" 

"Don't  you  get  any  money  for  the  work  you 
do?" 

"Work?  Shure,  I  don't  work.  What  work 
would  I  be  doin'  an'  me  hands  tied  in  knots?"  He 
took  a  hand  from  his  spade  and  held  it  out  for  me 
to  see;  a  twisted,  horny  thing  like  some  willow  root, 
bent  and  wrinkled  with  its  clinging  to  the  earth.  "I 
live  here,  yirra,"  he  added — "I  don't  work.  What 
work  would  a  man  like  meself  be  doin'  here  away  in 
the  mountains?" 

It  was  as  we  were  speaking  that  the  mist  broke 

53 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

into  driving  rain.  He  shouldered  his  spade  and 
made  slowly  for  the  cottage  door. 

"May  I  come  in?"  I  asked  as  he  opened  it. 

"Shure,  why  not,"  said  he. 

I  followed  him  within,  watching  him  in  silence  as 
he  took  the  handle  of  the  bellows-wheel  and  kindled 
the  dull  embers  of  his  little  fire  into  flames. 

"What  do  you  do  with  yourself  here  in  the  long 
winter  evenings,"  I  inquired  presently.  "In  Jan- 
uary and  December  when  it's  dark  at  four  o'clock?" 

He  looked  up  at  me  as  though  questioning  my 
right  to  that  inquisitiveness.  I  thought  at  first  he 
was  going  to  keep  silent,  but  at  last  he  spoke. 

"Aren't  there  all  the  tales  of  the  world  for  a 
man  to  be  tellin'  himself?"  he  asked  strangely. 
"Wouldn't  a  man  be  dumb  with  the  tongue  stiff  in 
his  mouth  an'  he  havin'  no  man  to  talk  wid  him?" 

"Who  comes  up  here  then  to  talk  to  you  those 
nights?" 

"Shure,  who,  indeed!  Is  there  a  man  would  trust 
himself  out  from  his  fireside  on  the  black  mountain, 
whin  the  cry  of  a  curlew  would  turn  the  blood  to 
ice  in  him?" 

"Who  do  you  talk  with  then?"  I  persisted. 

"I  talk  wid  meself.  Aren't  I  after  sayin'  a  man 
would  be  dumb  wid  the  tongue  stiff  in  his  mouth? 
Shure  I  talk  with  meself." 

He  said  it  as  though  there  were  two  persons  within 
him  and  I  experienced  a  strange  sensation  of  awe, 
rather  than  that  of  fear,  as  I  thought  of  that  old 
man  alone  there  through  the  wintry  evenings,  alone 

54 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

in  his  cottage  in  the  mountains.  I  wondered  what 
the  things  were  he  could  say — strange  things  I 
imagined,  which,  could  I  but  hear  them,  I  should 
scarcely  understand.  A  feeling  almost  of  horror 
came  over  me.  I  shuddered  as  I  considered  the 
strangeness  of  his  life.  It  was  so  far  out  of  the 
world.  I  knew  well  how  in  civilized  conditions, 
those  conditions  in  which  we  tell  ourselves  all  prog- 
ress lies,  how  this  old  man  would  be  thought  to  be 
mad. 

He  could  not  read,  he  could  not  write.  So  much 
had  Father  Dorgan  informed  me.  And  there  alone, 
while  the  long  winter  evenings  spun  out  their  dark- 
ness into  the  deeper  blackness  of  the  night,  he  sat 
by  his  fire  telling  himself  the  tales  of  the  world. 
What  tales  were  they?  Straightly  I  asked  him  what 
kind  of  tale  he  meant. 

"The  tales  of  the  men  who  have  loved  and  fought 
with  the  sword,"  he  said — "the  tales  of  the  men 
who  have  gone  into  the  still  places,  where  the  beatin' 
of  yeer  heart  would  be  no  more  than  the  wind  in 
the  grasses.  The  tales  of  war  when  the  hosts  came 
up  out  of  the  East  and  the  hosts  came  up  out  of  the 
West  and  one  woman  was  the  death  of  tin  thousand 
men." 

I  watched  his  face  in  wonder  while  he  was  say- 
ing this.  Had  the  circumstances  been  different,  had 
it  been  any  other  man,  I  should  have  thought  he  was 
talking  wild  nonsense,  trying  to  impress  me  with  the 
knowledge  and  the  wisdom  he  possessed.  But  I 
could  not  think  that  of  him.  He  spoke  indeed  like 

55 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

one  concealing  his  knowledge  rather  than  expressing 
it.  He  made  me  feel  there  were  a  thousand  things 
in  the  world  he  knew  of,  to  which  my  mind  was  as 
dead. 

And  then  at  last,  after  he  had  been  speaking  in 
this  strain  for  some  moments,  he  launched  forth  into 
one  of  the  wildest  and  most  inconceivable  stories  I 
had  ever  listened  to  in  all  my  life.  Scripture  and 
history,  mythology  and  folk-lore,  all  were  mingled 
in  one  incoherent  narrative  that  took  no  heed  of 
time  or  place  but  sped  through  the  centuries  and 
across  the  regions  of  the  world  with  such  disregard 
for  the  accepted  dimensions  of  possibility  as  could 
only  have  come  from  an  unconstrained  imagina- 
tion. 

Then  I  realized  somewhat  of  what  Father  Dorgan 
meant  when  he  said  that  Malachi  was  mad,  but  that 
it  was  a  madness  he  would  not  fear  to  share  if  it 
gave  him  the  power  of  seeing  those  things  which 
Malachi  could  see. 

What  were  those  things,  I  wondered,  for  slowly 
the  belief  was  growing  in  me  that  such  things  did 
indeed  exist.  My  eyes  were  blind  to  a  whole  world 
that  was  revealed  to  this  old  man.  The  external 
things  were  those  only  which  I  could  see.  But  for 
him,  there  was  a  vision  beyond  mere  externals.  He 
could  speak  of  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years,  as 
I  should  speak  of  the  life  of  one  man.  He  could 
see  in  terms  of  things  eternal,  when  I  must  divide 
my  day  by  the  hands  of  a  clock.  In  his  imagination, 
he  could  travel  to  the  furthest  ends  of  the  earth, 

56 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

speaking  in  wild  poetry  of  lands  I  only  could  reach 
by  aid  of  modern  science  and  could  not  conceive  of 
without. 

As  these  thoughts  came  to  me,  I  looked  about  the 
room  in  search  of  some  clock  or  means  by  which  he 
could  determine  on  the  hour.  There  was  none. 

"Don't  you  keep  a  clock  here?"  I  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Have  you  got  a  watch  then?" 

"I  have  not,"  said  he. 

"How  do  you  tell  the  time  then?" 

His  little  eyes  dwelt  on  me  for  some  moments.  I 
felt  almost  there  was  contempt  in  his  mind  as  he 
regarded  me.  At  last  he  answered. 

"Away  there,"  said  he  and  he  pointed  through 
the  wall  of  the  cottage — "away  there  lies  the  East 
an'  whin  the  sun  comes  burnin'  up  over  Knockna- 
fallia,  'tis  the  day,  an'  whin  it  drops  in  a  bloody  red 
behind  Carran  Hill  there,  'tis  night.  Isn't  that 
enough  for  a  man  to  be  knowing?  How  would  I  be 
readin'  one  o'  thim  clocks  an'  I  can't  read  me  own 
name?  Shure,  glory  be  to  God,  let  thim  talk  about 
time  as  gets  paid  bi  ut.  Time  1"  he  exclaimed — and 
what  a  note  of  contempt  he  had  in  his  voice — "Yirra, 
I  wouldn't  distress  meself  wid  ut." 

I  thought  of  our  clerks  in  the  cities,  watching  the 
hands  of  the  clock  as  they  worked  at  their  desks.  I 
thought  of  the  thousands  whose  daily  attitude 
towards  life  was  as  that  of  a  man  who  with  his  own 
fingers  counts  out  the  minutes  on  the  graduated  dial. 
These  were  they  and  in  their  millions,  who  distressed 

57 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

themselves  with  Time.  So  many  of  the  external 
things  were  on  their  hands  to  do,  yet  they  must  divide 
them  into  a  thousand  atoms  to  help  them  count  its 
passing.  But  this  old  man  without  one  property  to 
distract  his  mind  could  count  his  day  just  by  the 
rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sun.  At  that  moment 
I  looked  at  him  with  honest  envy. 

"I  wish  I  could  say  as  much,"  said  I. 

We  fell  then  to  talking  of  different  matters.  Of 
what  was  going  on  in  the  world — that  world  I  had 
left  behind  me — I  found  he  knew  nothing.  Had  he 
been  able  to  read,  I  doubt  if  he  would  ever  have 
seen  a  paper.  His  world  was  his  own.  He  made 
it  out  of  his  imagination,  but  so  far  from  that  making 
him  unintelligent,  it  was  as  though  in  a  man  who  has 
lost  the  sense  of  sight,  all  other  senses  were  more 
keenly  tuned  in  him.  He  spoke  the  wisdom  of  his 
own  thoughts  which  made  me  realize  how  much  the 
spread  of  education  and  of  modern  journalism  has 
killed  the  power  in  a  man  to  think  for  himself. 

Wild  as  his  wisdom  was,  there  were  in  it  those 
great  and  sudden  flashes  of  the  truth.  "Time !"  he 
had  said — "I  wouldn't  distress  meself  with  ut!" 
And  had  he  said  that  alone,  I  should  have  given  him 
more  wisdom  than  I  could  have  found  in  a  day's 
march  amongst  the  men  one  knows  as  wise.  Who 
but  one  who  thought  for  himself  would  have  imag- 
ined the  use  of  that  word?  To  distress  oneself  with 
Time !  How  many  thousands  there  are  who  do ! 

So,  as  we  talked  of  other  things,  I  led  him  gently 
to  the  subject  foremost  in  my  mind.  He  spoke  of 

58 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

the  lonely  lake  in  that  desolate  hollow  on  Knock- 
shunahallion. 

"Shure,  there's  no  depth  to  ut  at  all,"  said  he, 
lowering  his  voice  mysteriously;  by  which  I  knew  he 
meant  that  it  was  fathomless.  "  'Tis  black  as  night. 
Haven't  I  seen  the  water  on  a  day  in  Summer  and 
the  sun  shining  down  into  ut,  with  shafts  av  light 
the  way  ye'd  go  blind  in  the  eyes  if  ye  tuk  a  look 
up  at  ut,  an'  didn't  the  light  shtrike  down  white  into 
the  water  an'  didn't  the  water  turn  it  as  black  as 
Tim  Hennissey's  goat?  It  did  indeed.  Shure  if  ye 
threw  a  shtone  into  that  lake  and  wint  round  the 
world  and  came  back  again  on  yeer  two  feet 
shtandin',  'twould  still  be  sinkin'  an'  sinkin'." 

This  was  the  lake  by  the  side  of  which  they  had 
found  Anthony  Sorel.  I  urged  Malachi  to  tell  me 


more. 
n 


Has  anyone  ever  been  drowned  in  that  lake?"  I 
asked  and  I  found  my  voice  too  was  dropping  to  the 
mysterious  whisper  as  though  to  keep  in  tune  with 
his. 

He  stared  for  a  long  while  into  the  fire  and  then 
at  last  he  answered. 

"Did  ye  hear  them  speak  of  Maggie  Donovan  at 
Tom  Foley's  at  all?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  said  I. 

For  a  moment  he  looked  silently  before  him. 
Then  he  spat  into  the  fire. 

"  'Twas  she  had  the  beauty  of  all  women,"  he  said 
presently — "an'  she  with  the  young  fellas  from  all 
over,  dancing  wid  her  at  the  cross  roads  an'  takin* 

5  59 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

her  walking  up  there  into  the  hills.  'Tis  crazed  they 
were  an'  she  as  beautiful  as  a  blackthorn  tree  on  a 
long  Spring  day." 

He  would  have  fallen  into  a  reverie  once  more, 
continuing  the  story  in  the  silence  of  those  dreams 
of  which  his  life  seemed  greatly  to  be  composed. 
Indeed  I  remember  now,  for  it  comes  thus  prompted 
to  my  mind,  the  vivid  impression  he  gave  me  then; 
it  was  as  of  one  walking  in  his  sleep  who  wanders 
from  room  to  room  of  a  vast  and  silent  house,  each 
room,  as  he  comes  upon  it,  awakening  some  dim 
remembrances  of  the  daily  life,  then  fading  again 
into  the  muffled  distance  of  his  dream. 

Into  such  a  reverie,  he  would  have  fallen  then, 
but  with  the  eagerness  of  my  questioning,  I  stirred 
him  from  it. 

•  "What  happened  to  Maggie  Donovan  up  at  the 
lake?"  I  asked. 

He  moved  on  his  chair,  but  still  his  eyes  were  star- 
ing deep  into  the  heart  of  the  fire  as  though  it  were 
the  essence  of  those  thoughts  his  mind  was 
wrapped  in. 

"  'Twas  Maggie  Donovan  was  walkin'  by  the 
road,  an'  she  in  her  hair  wid  her  littleen  shawleen. 
dropped  down  behind  her  neck,  coming  by  Foildar- 
rig.  An'  hadn't  she  the  beauty  of  all  women,  an' 
didn't  the  sparks  come  out  of  the  boots  av  the  min 
that  danced  wid  her  at  the  cross  roads,  the  way  they 
danced  so  lustily?  They  did  indeed.  And  wasn't 
there  Nanno  O'Shea  wid  her  that  day  and  she  tellin' 
the  priest  whin  the  thing  had  happened?" 

60 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"What  happened  then?" 

Despite  myself,  despite  that  spirit  of  materialism 
in  me  which  I  had  believed  no  other  spirit  could 
subdue,  I  found  myself  listening  with  breath  eager 
on  my  lips,  my  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

"There  came  wan  out  av  a  pass  of  the  hills  and 
down  the  side  av  thim,  an'  he  playin'  on  a  reed  he'd 
cut  bi  the  side  av  the  lake  up  there  in  Knockshuna- 
hallion.  Didn't  they  hear  his  music  an'  he  comin' 
down  the  side  of  the  mountain?  An'  didn't  the 
thyme  blossoms  spring  up  where  his  feet  had  trodden 
to  look  which  way  was  he  goin'?  An'  he  played 
as  he  came  down  the  side  of  the  hill  an'  he  with  no 
more  than  a  reed  to  his  mouth  that  he'd  cut  for 
himself." 

Malachi  paused  to  turn  the  quid  in  his  mouth, 
when,  fearing  lest  he  might  not  go  on,  I  asked  him 
what  sort  of  music  it  might  have  been. 

"  'Twas  the  sounds  of  the  winds,"  said  he,  "that 
go  slippin'  wid  the  bees  over  the  heather.  'Twas 
the  call  of  the  birds  and  the  music  av  water  that 
drops  through  the  thick  av  the  moss.  Shure  didn't 
he  laugh  as  he  played  and  wasn't  his  laughin'  like 
the  sun  shtriking  down  in  the  mad  race  of  a  shtream? 
An'  there  was  he  comin'  down  the  side  av  the  hill 
in  his  littleen  coat,  wid  the  brogues  on  the  feet  av 
him  as  he  danced.  'Twas  herself  heard  him  and 
stood  there  like  wan  in  a  dream  where  she  was. 
An'  on  comes  himself  an'  she  shtandin'  there  bi  the 
road,  wid  her  head  thrown  back  an'  her  throat  like 
the  neck  of  a  bird  that  is  burstin'  wid  song  an'  her 

61 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

limbs  like  the  saplin's  of  ash  trees  an'  she  wid  the 
beauty  of  all  women  in  her  face." 

"What  happened  then?" 

"Yirra,  he  came  droppin'  the  spell  of  the  music 
in  her  ears  an'  she  always  ready  for  the  dancin'. 
'I  must  go,'  says  she — 'I  must  go,'  says  she,  an' 
didn't  she  follow  the  feet  av  him  up  there  into  the 
mists  of  the  mountains,  he  playin'  the  madness  into 
her  feet  wid  his  little  reed.  An'  whin  they  came 
to  the  lake,  he  walks  wid  his  laughter  down  there 
into  the  wather  an'  she  after  him  suckling  for  the 
music  he  played.  An'  in  she  walked  an'  in  she 
walked,  till  the  black  waters  closed  over  her  black 
hair  and  all  they  found  whin  they  came  in  search 
av  her,  was  the  littleen  shawleen  floatin'  on  the 
water.  Doesn't  it  hang  in  the  cottage  down  there 
in  Foildarrig  and  can't  they  wring  the  wather  out 
avut  to  this  day?" 

I  sat  there  in  silence  when  he  had  made  an  end, 
wondering  what  change  had  come  in  me  that  I  could 
almost  believe  his  tale.  In  another  place,  at  an- 
other time,  this  had  been  just  a  story  of  a  romantic 
suicide;  but  as  I  listened  to  it  from  his  lips  in  that 
little  cottage  in  the  mountains,  it  seemed  to  have  a 
deeper  truth  than  mere  narrative.  It  was  this  deep- 
er truth,  without  perhaps  his  knowing  it,  that  ap- 
peared to  give  reason  for  its  unswerving  belief  in 
him. 

What  was  that  truth?  Should  I  ever  reach  it? 
It  was  so  distant  and  yet  in  the  very  straining  I  felt 
in  my  soul  to  touch  it,  it  seemed  that  I  was  coming 

62 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

closer  to  the  understanding  of  why  Anthony  Sorel 
had  killed  Anna  Quartermaine. 

There  it  was,  by  that  very  lake,  they  had  found 
him  sitting,  when  two  days  had  gone  by  after  her 
death. 

I  looked  out  of  the  tiny  window  of  Malachi's  cot- 
tage. The  wind  had  swept  clear  the  sky  once  more. 
The  small  oblong  of  his  window  showing  the  sky, 
was  like  a  rough-cut  turquoise  set  in  the  uneven 
wall. 

"The  rain's  past,"  said  I. 

Without  a  word  he  rose  from  his  chair,  went  to 
the  door  and  opened  it  so  that  his  chickens  might 
get  out  into  the  light  of  the  sun  again. 

"How  many  miles  is  it  to  the  lake  from  here?"  I 
asked. 

He  stood  there  in  the  doorway  looking  up  to  the 
heights  of  the  mountain  and  his  red  shirt  shouted 
like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet  against  that  sky. 

"  'Tis  a  matter  of  two  miles,"  said  he- — "an'  'tis 
the  feet  av  a  goat  that'll  take  ye  there." 

"It's  what's  in  a  man's  heart,"  said  I — "you'll  find 
in  his  feet,"  and  slipping  past  him  in  the  doorway  I 
set  my  face  up  the  mountainside. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  heather  grows  spare  and  thin  as  you  climb 
the  hills.  Above  a  height  there  is  nothing 
but  the  coarse  mountain  grass  and  the 
moss,  with  here  and  there  a  wild  root  of  creeping 
thyme,  falling  down  like  the  strands  of  dark  hair 
over  the  face  of  the  lichened  rocks. 

Soon  I  lost  myself  in  the  crevices  and  ravines  of 
the  mountains,  hollows  and  gloomy  passages,  they 
were,  that  had  looked  but  mere  shadows  from  the 
valley  below.  From  there,  I  could  see  nothing  of 
the  green  fields  in  the  lowland  around  Araglin.  The 
sun  crept  suddenly  in  places  into  the  gloom,  shafts 
of  light,  as  through  cathedral  windows,  across  the 
dark  spaces  of  the  hills. 

It  was  a  world  of  great  silence,  where  the  slipping 
of  a  goat  over  the  mountain  stones  or  the  cry  of  a 
buzzard  wheeling  overhead,  set  the  heart  beating  in 
every  pulse.  Here  indeed,  I  could  imagine,  were  the 
great  truths  to  be  found.  For  here  it  was  that  Na- 
ture in  all  the  glory  of  her  solitude  could  speak  her 
secrets  to  the  soul  of  a  man. 

Here  was  the  truth  which  my  mind  had  been 
reaching  forth  to  touch.  There  it  was  for  my  see- 
ing, if  but  the  eyes  of  my  imagination  had  been 
clear,  unmisted  by  that  material  vision  which  is  a 
glass,  smoked  and  dim  before  the  sight  of  the  soul. 

64 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

But  at  every  moment  the  loneliness  of  the  place 
encompassed  me.  I  could  not  see  the  face  of  Na- 
ture for  the  consciousness  of  my  own  solitude;  and 
yet  I  felt  that  I  was  standing  in  one  of  those  places 
of  the  earth  where  most  generously  she  reveals 
herself. 

With  an  effort  I  snatched  my  mind  away  from  that 
oppressive  self-contemplation.  I  thought  of  An- 
thony Sorel,  living  his  life,  day  following  night, 
night  following  day  in  the  long  silences  of  those  hills. 
What  had  he  believed?  There  was  abundant  evi- 
dence in  his  poems  that  that  solitude,  those  dim-lit 
hollows  and  all  the  mystery  which  wrapped  them 
round  had  brought  their  hidden  revelations  to  his 
soul. 

If  I  must  learn  my  soul, 

Then,  where  no  feet  have  trod, 

Give  me  the  speed 

To  reach  my  need, 

And  through  long  days 

But  let  me  gaze 

Into  the  deep  eyes  of  God. 

So  he  wrote  and  I  feel  sure  that  then  he  was  speak- 
ing of  those  very  mountain  passes ;  for  again,  in  an- 
other poem,  he  says : 

I  am  alone  with  the  sob  of  the  wind, 

The  rushes  are  chanting  the  wind's  wild  song; 

And  I  hear  them  say  as  they  drift  and  bind, 

The  voice  of  God  is  a  silent  voice, 

And  the  patience  of  God  is  long. 

65 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

It  is  ever  when  he  writes  of  the  attributes  of  God, 
that  I  feel  he  is  speaking  of  Nature,  both  which  to 
him  were  one. 

I  took  his  book  out  of  my  pocket  then,  for  I 
brought  it  with  me  wherever  I  went,  and  read  those 
verses  and  many  others  beside.  For  an  hour  I  sat 
there  on  the  table  of  a  great  bowlder  surrounded  by 
the  dim  light  of  the  gray  mists  that  kept  sweeping 
by,  until  I  felt  almost  that  the  spirit  of  Anthony  Sorel 
had  arisen  and  entered  into  me. 

Such  gentleness  of  imagery,  such  sensitiveness  to 
the  truths  and  the  beauties  of  Nature !  How,  I  won- 
dered, could  that  ever  have  been  flung  into  the  wild 
frenzy  of  murder  and  sudden  death?  The  more  I 
seemed  to  achieve  understanding  of  the  spirit  of  the 
man,  the  more  incomprehensible  did  it  become. 

Shutting  the  volume  and  putting  it  back  again  in 
my  pocket,  there  fell  upon  my  mind  the  recollection 
of  what  the  old  bookseller  in  Netting  Hill  had  said 
— "Why  does  a  man  kill  a  woman,  unless  because 
he  hates  or  loves  her  overmuch."  But  as  I  came  to 
my  understanding  of  him,  Anthony  Sorel  was  a  vi- 
sionary. In  all  his  work,  he  cried  that  fact  aloud. 
Was  it  in  such  a  man  that  love  or  hatred  could  be- 
come obsession?  I  could  not  conceive  the  bodily 
passions  in  him  overcoming  the  purpose  of  his  soul. 
Yet  in  the  portrait  I  had  formed  of  him  within  my 
mind,  there  were  always  the  sensitive  lips  on  which 
kisses  would  have  burnt  like  coals  of  fire. 

So  I  put  the  book  in  my  pocket  and  made  my  way 
still  higher  up  into  the  mountain  in  search  of  that 

66 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

lake  where,  after  those  two  days,  they  had  found 
him.  It  was  suddenly  that  I  came  upon  it,  hidden 
away  in  that  lofty  amphitheater  of  the  hills. 

A  chill  struck  through  me  as  I  turned  the  corner 
of  the  cliff  and  found  it  there  before  my  eyes.  The 
black  waters  were  so  silent  and  so  still.  An  almost 
irresistible  impulse  rushed  upon  me  to  cast  myself 
down  into  it  and  wrench  from  it  the  secrets  of  its 
depths.  I  stood  there  trembling.  It  was  no  earthly 
place. 

Well  indeed  could  I  believe  as  I  stood  beside  the 
edge,  that  the  faeries  had  taken  Maggie  Donovan 
there  to  her  wandering  sleep.  So  earthly  a  thing  as 
suicide  could  never  have  been  attempted  there — the 
very  human  purpose  of  it  would  have  shuddered  and 
stood  still  in  a  swift  arrest.  Nothing  but  the  unseen 
powers  could  ever  induce  a  human  thing  to  let  those 
inky  waters  close  forever  on  its  head. 

Here  was  I  learning  the  meaning  of  the  faeries 
swift  and  fast.  They  are  the  symbols  of  our  un- 
traceable  moods  which  no  science  of  psychology  in 
the  mind  of  man  can  ever  hope  to  reveal. 

And  there,  in  those  silent  mountains,  gazing 
"into  the  deep  eyes  of  God"  the  moods  of  a  man 
are  Nature's  moods ;  the  truths  of  her  are  his. 

What  indeed  must  have  been  the  mood  of  An- 
thony Sorel,  when,  as  I  understand,  he  sat  beside  that 
awesome  lake  one  day  and  all  one  night  until  they 
found  him?  So  black,  so  terrible  a  thing  it  must 
have  been,  that  I  shivered  as  I  thought  of  the  deso- 
lation of  it. 

67 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

All  down  the  mountainside  from  the  peaks  above 
it,  great  stones  and  bowlders  had  bee.n  cast  that  had 
never  reached  the  water's  edge.  How  many  thou- 
sands, I  wondered,  had  not  sped  onwards  in  their 
thundering  acceleration  and  been  lost  in  the  fathom- 
less waters.  Playthings  of  the  giants  they  were, 
flung  down  by  mighty  hands  as  boys  throw  pebbles 
in  a  stream. 

So  ran  one's  thoughts  in  such  a  place.  Giants  and 
faeries  not  only  became  real,  but  were  the  only  reali- 
ties. For  there  it  seemed,  man  was  a  puny  thing. 
As  I  stood  there  I  was  overwhelmed  with  my  own 
insignificance.  Strong  swimmer  as  I  was,  I  knew  I 
could  never  trust  myself  in  those  still  waters;  not 
from  the  belief  that  currents  would  suck  me  down,  or 
if  it  was,  it  did  not  speak  in  those  words  to  my  mind. 
The  fear  that  hidden  hands  would  grasp  me  was  that 
which  thrust  itself  upon  my  thoughts.  I  peered  into 
the  water  and,  in  the  quivering  lights  I  saw,  that 
flashed  and  faded  and  then  flashed  again,  could  well 
believe  they  were  the  hungry  eyes  of  those  that  lay 
in  wait  for  human  things. 

And  here  it  was  that  they  had  taken  Anthony 
Sorel,  in  the  last  moments  of  his  remorse  or  his  de- 
spair. 

I  turned  away  with  a  sick  horror  in  my  mind  and 
climbed  down  the  mountain  once  again.  This  time 
I  went  by  a  different  way  when,  taking  the  turning 
of  a  wandering  path,  I  came  upon  a  cottage,  roofless, 
windowless,  that  cried  out  its  lonely  desolation  to 
the  echoes  of  the  hills. 

68 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

I  knew  at  once  it  must  be  the  place  where  Anthony 
Sorel  had  lived,  yet  scarce  anything  remained  but  the 
four  walls  to  show  a  sign  of  life.  The  chimney  even 
was  shattered,  yet  there  were  the  marks  of  the  smoke 
on  the  wall  where  he  had  lit  his  fire.  There  was  the 
gaping  window  on  which  doubtless  he  had  often 
leant,  looking  out  across  the  mists,  gazing  even  from 
there  into  those  "deep  eyes  of  God." 

All  the  floor  was  sprinkled  with  debris,  the  brown 
straws  of  the  thatch,  the  crumbling  mortar,  the  very 
beams  that  had  upheld  the  thatch. 

In  its  day  it  had  been  such  a  cottage  as  Malachi's, 
one-roomed  with  a  door  at  back  and  front.  The 
floor  was  of  mud,  cracked  here  and  there. 

It  was  in  one  crack  of  the  floor,  as  I  looked  at  it, 
that  something  glittered  and  winked  as  I  moved  my 
head.  It  spurred  my  curiosity.  Swiftly  I  went 
down  on  my  knees  and  with  a  pen-knife  cut  away  the 
hard  caked  earth. 

There  lay  a  ring — a  ring  of  gold,  setting  an  em- 
erald roughly  cut.  With  heart  beating  at  my  discov- 
ery, I  took  it  out  into  the  wider  light,  looking  at  it 
as  one  looks  at  some  treasure  found  in  an  Egyptian 
prince's  tomb. 

As  I  turned  it  over,  I  saw  the  letters  of  an  in- 
scription inside  the  band.  Dirt  clogged  the  letters. 
I  wetted  my  finger  and  rubbed  them  clear  and  this 
was  what  I  read: 

"Out  of  the  earth." 

I  read  it  again  and  again.    What  memory  was  it 
69 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

that  it  raised  in  me?  Then  I  remembered — it  was  a 
phrase,  oft  repeated  in  one  of  Anthony  Sorel's 
poems. 

This  incident  of  the  ring  I  have  mentioned  be- 
cause, at  the  time,  it  brought  so  near  to  my  mind  the 
life  of  Anthony  Sorel  in  that  place,  still  more  the 
death  of  Anna  Quartermaine.  For  though  I  was 
never  able  to  confirm  my  belief  that  she  it  was  who 
had  given  it  him ;  though  indeed,  in  all  the  story  that 
I  heard  from  Malachi's  lips,  he  never  mentioned  it, 
yet  it  convinced  me  then,  when  I  found  it,  that  it  had 
played  some  part  between  these  two  whose  history  is 
now  lost  amongst  the  echoes  of  those  Irish  hills. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  FEW  days  after  my  visit  to  the  lake,  I 
dropped  in  one  evening,  as  he  had  bid  me,  to 
see  Father  Dorgan. 

It  was  a  cold  night,  late  in  the  month  of  March 
and  a  fire  was  burning  cheerfully  in  his  parlor.  The 
light  in  the  room  was  pleasant,  but  dim,  for  except 
for  the  light  of  the  fire,  starting  and  dancing  on  the 
walls  and  ceiling,  only  two  candles  were  burning  on 
the  table  between  which  he  had  placed  the  book  he 
was  reading. 

The  housekeeper,  an  ugly  old  woman,  slightly 
deaf  and  with  a  wall  eye,  had  opened  the  door  an- 
nouncing me,  and  giving  him  no  warning  of  my  com- 
ing. 

At  the  hall  door,  we  had  spent  some  difficult  mo- 
ments over  the  pronunciation  of  my  name.  After 
two  or  three  ineffectual  attempts,  I  had  given  up 
all  hope  of  her  mastering  the  first  part  of  it  and 
had  resigned  myself  to  spelling  the  second  part 
alone. 

Even  then,  with  the  separate  letters  carefully 
spelled  out  by  me,  she  had  not  grasped  it  but  opened 
the  door,  announcing  "Mr.  Thrruston,"  with  a 
great  rolling  of  "r's." 

He  looked  at  me  steadily  from  between  the  points 
of  the  lighted  candles ;  then,  suddenly  recollecting  our 

71 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

meeting  by  the  bank  of  the  river,  he  rose  and  genially 
held  out  his  hand. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Thrruston,"  said  he. 

The  vanity  which  is  in  all  of  us  and  makes  it  im- 
possible for  us  to  hear  the  mispronunciation  of  our 
names  compelled  me  to  correct  him.  I  said  my 
name  clearly  and  distinctly. 

"Ah — shure,  I  see,"  said  he — "Mr.  Thrruston — 
ah,  of  course — what  a  fool  she  was." 

He  had  pronounced  it  exactly  the  same.  I  let  it 
go  at  that. 

"Well — now  would  ye  like  any  more  light?"  he 
went  on.  "It's  dim  in  here,  a  man  couldn't  see  the 
way  to  his  mouth  and  I'll  get  herself  to  make  us  a 
drop  of  punch." 

As  to  the  way  to  my  mouth  I  had  nothing  to  say, 
but  for  any  other  account  I  begged  him  not  to  light 
more  candles  for  me.  Knowing  what  was  in  my 
mind  to  discuss,  I  felt  that  dim,  suggestive  light  was 
far  more  conducive  to  his  confidence. 

"Oh — we  have  a  lamp,"  said  he,  as  though  he 
wished  me  to  know  that  they  were  not  wanting  in 
matters  of  convenience. 

"I'd  prefer  this  light,"  I  persisted,  at  which, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
fact  that  I  was  his  guest  and  must  have  things  to  my 
liking,  he  went  in  search  of  the  housekeeper  to  tell 
her  about  the  punch. 

Whilst  he  was  gone,  I  looked  about  me.  It  was  a 
high-ceilinged  room,  unfurnished  with  any  of  those 
comfortable  luxuries  with  which  you  might  expect  a 

72 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

man  to  surround  himself  when  he  lives  alone.  And 
yet,  it  did  not  want  for  comfort.  The  sense  that  it 
was  a  haunted  house  seemed  unable  to  penetrate  the 
thick  curtains  that  were  drawn  before  the  high  win- 
dows. The  two  sacred  pictures  on  the  walls  offered 
nothing  in  the  comforting  suggestion  of  decoration, 
yet  they  gave  an  atmosphere  to  the  place  which  you 
felt  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  man. 

Things  out  of  keeping  in  a  room,  however  luxu- 
rious they  may  be,  contribute  in  no  way  to  the  real 
essence  of  comfort.  The  body  may  be  at  ease,  but 
with  a  restless  spirit  there  can  be  no  repose.  The 
restfulness  of  that  room  was  in  the  flicker  of  the  fire, 
the  two  candles  burning  on  the  table,  the  shielding 
curtains  shutting  out  the  night  and  the  sense  of  quiet 
contemplation  it  all  offered  to  the  mind. 

I  leant  over  the  table,  looking  at  the  book  he  had 
been  reading,  still  lying  open  where  he  had  left  it. 
There  I  knew  I  should  more  suddenly  and  closely 
come  upon  the  man  of  whom  as  yet  I  knew  so  very 
little. 

It  was  the  Bible  and  it  was  opened  at  the  book  of 
Job.  I  think  I  must  have  smiled,  realizing  as  I  did 
that  this  was  no  occupation  of  faith,  but  the  recrea- 
tion of  a  man  who  knew  the  worth  of  literature  and 
knew  it  at  its  best. 

I  had  left  the  table  and  was  warming  my  hands 
at  the  fire  when  he  returned.  The  first  thing  he  did 
was  quietly  to  close  the  book,  replacing  it  in  the 
bookshelves  that  stood  against  the  wall.  I  smiled 
again  to  myself.  So  evidently  was  it  literature  to 

73 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

him ;  I  have  no  belief  in  the  Bible  that  is  openly  dis- 
played upon  a  table  in  any  room.  It  is  seldom  read. 

He  motioned  me  to  a  horsehair  armchair  near 
the  fire,  seating  himself  on  the  chair  he  had  occupied 
before,  but  turning  it  round  from  the  table,  the  bet- 
ter to  be  able  to  talk  to  me. 

"Well,"  said  he — "how  do  ye  find  yeerself  in 
Araglin?  'Tis  like  a  peep  into  the  grave  after  Lon- 
don, I  suppose." 

"It's  quiet  enough,"  I  admitted,  "but  I  didn't 
come  here  expecting  to  find  it  anything  else." 

"Have  ye  ever  been  to  Ireland  before?" 

I  told  him  how  I  had  lived  some  years  in  the  South 
and  knew  it  well,  though  this  part  of  the  country  was 
new  to  me. 

To  every  answer  of  mine,  he  kept  nodding  his 
head,  saying,  half  under  his  breath,  "Indeed — in- 
deed"— a  habit  he  no  doubt  had  acquired  from  the 
confessional.  I  had  often  noticed  it  in  other  priests. 
So  he  continued  asking  me  questions,  only  pausing 
when  the  old  woman  came  in  with  the  punch  tum- 
blers and  all  those  necessary  ingredients  for  its  mak- 
ing. I  was  quite  contented  to  sit  there,  answering 
him,  knowing  that  sooner  or  later,  without  my  forc- 
ing it  upon  him,  he  would  come  upon  the  purpose  of 
my  visit  to  Araglin.  While  he  made  the  punch,  he 
spoke  but  little.  It  was  an  important  ceremony, 
needing  attention.  First  the  hot  water  in  the  tum- 
blers with  their  little  lips.  This  to  bring  them  to 
the  requisite  warmth.  Then  the  sugar,  melted  in  a 
wineglassful  of  steaming  water,  again  a  wineglass- 

74 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

ful  of  whisky,  then  the  shreds  of  lemon  peel  cut  to 
the  thinness  of  a  wafer  and  last  of  all  the  boiling 
water  to  the  brim.  From  one  of  the  tumblers  he 
poured  out  a  wineglassful  and  handed  it  to  me. 

"That'll  turn  March  into  July,"  said  he. 

I  sipped  it  and  the  fumes  rose  warmly  to  my  nos- 
trils. He  watched  my  face  for  approval  as  I  drank 
it  and  there  was  a  smile  half-humorous,  half  of  en- 
joyable anticipation  in  his  eyes. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"Splendid,"  said  I — "an  excellent  antidote  for 
winter." 

"Faith,  ye're  right  there,"  said  he.  "A  man  can 
pull  the  curtains,  set  a  match  to  the  fire  till  the  skin 
of  him's  warm,  but  'tis  this  stuff  lights  the  kindling 
inside  of  him." 

After  the  punch-making,  he  settled  down  to  his 
questioning  again,  not  with  that  same  eagerness  of 
curiosity  now,  but  with  a  genuine  interest,  finding 
that  I  was  quite  ready  to  tell  him  all  he  wanted  to- 
know. 

When  I  replied  to  one  of  his  questions  that  I  was 
a  writer,  his  sharp  eyes  fixed  the  more  keenly  on  my 
face. 

"Indeed — indeed,"  said  he.  "I've  not  come 
across  the  name." 

I  did  not  think  that  was  likely,  even  if  he  had  got 
it  right.  But  he  said  it  with  a  charming  air  of  apol- 
ogy as  though  it  argued  an  inexcusable  ignorance  in 
him.  However,  I  quickly  exonerated  him  of  that. 

"I  can't  expect  to  penetrate,"  said  I,  "into  places 
6  75 


where  people  really  are  alive.  Life  there  would  be 
too  short  for  them  to  dream  of  reading  me.  You 
read  the  right  sort  of  stuff — "  I  nodded  my  head  to 
the  book  he  had  put  away. 

"Ah — there's  some  poetry  there,"  said  he  and  we 
fell  to  talking  upon  the  decay  of  poetry,  both 
amongst  those  who  read  and  those  who  write  it. 

"I  don't  call  it  the  fault  of  the  poets,"  said  he. 
"If  there's  no  beauty  about  bearing  children  in  the 
mind  of  a  woman  she  won't  have  a  beautiful  child. 
She  will  not.  Faith,  ye  might  say  she'd  never  have 
a  child  at  all.  'Tis  the  fault  of  the  people  beyond 
over,  they  don't  want  things  beautiful  and  yirra,  they 
don't  get  'em.  That's  the  way  with  'em.  They  don't 
want  children  and  faith,  don't  they  go  barren?  Shure, 
ye  can  get  beauty  for  nothing  but  'tis  amusement 
they  want  and  that's  the  divil's  expense.  Didn't  I 
have  to  pay  five  shillings  for  my  seat  in  a  London 
theater  to  see  a  lot  of  painted  canvas  they  called  a 
glorious  production  and  couldn't  I  see  things  up  in 
these  mountains  the  way  the  tears  'ud  come  into  me 
eyes  to  be  lookin'  at  them  an'  I  walkin'  there  for 
nothing  on  me  two  feet.  Haven't  we  got  more  poets 
than  anything  else  in  this  country  an'  they,  half  of 
them,  writing  in  prose  the  way  they'd  put  bread  into 
their  mouths.  The  whole  matter  with  yeer  busi- 
ness," he  continued,  "is  that  ye  have  to  live  by  it. 
Shure  if  I  gave  the  thrush  in  my  garden  a  worm  for 
every  song  he  sang,  wouldn't  he  get  choked  in  the 
throat  of  him?  He  would  so." 

I  must  confess  it  was  no  little  joy  to  me  to  sit 
76 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

there  listening  to  this  kind  of  idealism.  It  voiced 
the  instinct  which  every  one  of  us  would  obey — if 
we  could — if  we  had  the  courage.  As  it  is,  there 
is  scarcely  one  of  us  who  dare  even  mention  it,  so 
conscious  are  we  of  the  inevitable  accusation  of  folly, 
and  of  the  certain  contempt  of  our  fellows. 

But  I  could  say  what  I  liked  to  him  without  any 
such  fear  as  this.  I  could  tell  things  to  him — an  ut- 
ter stranger — things  I  would  not  dare  to  say — as  he 
would  have  put  it — beyond  over. 

"An'  is  it  the  way  ye've  come  here  to  get  away 
from  it  all?"  he  asked  me  presently. 

I  admitted  incidentally  that  that  was  so. 

"However,  I  have  another  more  definite  reason," 
said  I  and  out  of  my  pocket  I  pulled  the  volume  of 
Anthony  Sorel's  poems. 

He  looked  at  it  long  and  intently.  Then  his  head 
shot  up  with  a  sudden  jerk  and  he  looked  at  me. 

"Where  did  ye  get  this?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  where  I  had  bought  it — how  long  ago. 

Then  he  nodded  his  head  backwards  and  for- 
wards as  he  gazed  at  me. 

"What  have  ye  found  out  from  old  Malachi?" 
he  inquired. 

"Nothing,"  said  I,  for  so  far  my  endeavors  had 
been  fruitless.  Whenever  I  had  mentioned  the 
name  of  Anthony  Sorel  to  the  old  man,  and  I  had 
done  so,  always  in  a  casual  way,  every  day  that  I 
had  seen  him,  he  had  shrunk  into  himself  like  a  snail 
disturbed  upon  the  garden  path. 

'  'Tis  the  silence  of  the  dead  he  has  in  him,"  said 
77 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

lie — and  then  he  added,  "Yirra,  that  story'll  never 
be  written." 

"Do  you  know  nothing  about  it  yourself?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"Nothing  but  what  any  people  about  these  parts 
know  as  well.  The  unfortunate  young  man  admit- 
ted that  he'd  killed  her." 

"He  did  admit  it?" 

"He  did  of  course.  Shure,  wasn't  the  blood  of  her 
on  his  hands  when  they  found  him." 

"Did  he  give  any  reason  for  killing  her?" 

"He  did  not — divil  a  word.  'Twas  himself  keep- 
ing long  silences  and  they  hanging  him  with  nothing 
passing  his  lips  from  the  moment  he  said  he  was 
guilty." 

"I  heard  he  had  said  something  about  justice  when 
he  was  being  tried." 

"Oh — he  did  indeed — 'Them  seek  for  justice' — 
'twas  himself  said  it- — 'them  seek  for  justice  the  way 
they'd  hunt  for  a  shillin'  under  a  stone.'  And  there 
was  an  amount  of  truth  in  it  mind  ye,  for  I've  a  feel- 
ing in  me  'twas  not  the  justice  of  God  they  were  after 
giving  him  if  a'  be  it  was  the  justice  of  the  law.  And 
shure — what's  the  law,  will  ye  tell  me  that,  and  they 
sending  Michael  Daly  to  prison  because  he  deserted 
the  Army  and  he  sickening  to  be  with  the  mother 
who'd  suckled  him  from  a  babe?" 

For  a  while  we  both  fell  to  meditation  while  he 
turned  over  the  pages  of  the  book  I  had  given  into 
Jbis  hands. 

"Have  you  read  them?"  I  asked  him  presently. 
78 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"I  have  indeed,"  he  replied.  "Didn't  I  take  a 
copy  for  a  while  from  Father  Killery  in  Ballysag- 
gartmore  and  didn't  he  hear  all  about  it  from  Father 
Nolan,  he  that  was  parish  priest  in  the  place  whin  the 
thing  happened?" 

"Is  Father  Nolan  alive?" 

I  asked  it  so  eagerly  and  so  quickly  that  he  turned 
a  smile  to  me. 

"He  is  not,"  said  he. 

I  must  have  shown  the  bitterness  of  my  disap- 
pointment, for  he  smiled  again. 

"If  he  were,"  continued  he,  "ye'd  learn  little 
more  than  what  Father  Killery  knows,  or  what  I 
know  and  what  plenty  round  about  in  these  parts 
know  as  well.  They  will  have  it  round  here,  that 
that  old  man  Malachi  knows  the  secret  of  it;  but 
between  me  and  the  tumbler  of  punch  there,  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  didn't  know  anything 
at  all." 

"You  think  it  was  just  a  common,  sordid  murder 
then?" 

I  know  I  must  have  spoken  warmly,  for  the  heat 
of  my  belief  was  very  strong  in  me.  Ever  since  that 
morning  when  I  had  stood  beside  the  lake  in  the 
mountains,  when  I  had  found  the  ruins  of  Anthony 
Sorel's  cottage  and  had  discovered  that  ring  in  the 
crack  of  the  mud  floor,  not  only  had  the  story  be- 
come doubly  real  to  me  but  a  thousand  times  more 
firmly  had  grown  the  conviction  in  my  mind  that 
this  was  no  crime  of  vicious  motives.  I  did  not 
willingly  incline  to  the  belief  that  the  faeries  had 

79 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

taken  her;  but  coming  to  that  realization  of  what 
the  faeries  meant,  that  they  were  the  poetic  sym- 
bols of  those  intangible  moods  of  the  mind,  which 
no  psychologist  can  either  explain  or  define,  I  could 
so  readily  understand  how  such  a  belief  had  grown 
in  these  credulous  children  of  the  mountains. 

For  some  reason,  Anthony  Sorel  had  killed  Anna 
Quartermaine,  some  reason  upon  which  it  would  be 
beyond  any  court  of  law  to  legislate.  So,  in  his  hour 
of  trial,  he  had  kept  silence  rather  than  be  misunder- 
stood and  so,  out  there  in  the  dim  mists  of  the  moun- 
tains, the  people  had  seen  her  walking  with  the  faer- 
ies for  want  of  that  understanding  which  maybe  the 
old  man,  Malachi,  was  the  only  one  in  the  world  by 
whom  it  was  possessed. 

"Is  that  what  you  really  think?"  I  repeated — "that 
the  man  who  could  sing  the  songs  he  did,  was  capable 
of  the  foul  and  ugly  instincts  of  a  common  mur- 
derer?" 

"D'ye  know  what  I'd  like  to  be  able  to  think?" 
said  he. 

"What?" 

His  eyes  twinkled — not  altogether  in  humor  but 
partly  with  an  intensity  of  inward  light  which  per- 
haps I  never  shall  be  able  completely  to  understand. 

"I'd  like  to  think,"  said  he,  "that  she  was  down 
there,  walking  the  fields  with  the  faeries  in  Foildar- 
rig,  because,  mind  ye,  that  young  fella  could  sing  a 
song  as  well  as  the  thrush  that  sits  on  the  top  of  the 
thorn  bush  at  the  bottom  of  my  garden.  And  when 
I  think  of  himself  taking  the  knife  in  his  hand  and 

80 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

planting  it  in  her,  the  way  his  own  hands  were  spurt- 
ed with  blood,  then  all  the  music  goes  out  of  them 
verses  to  me.  I'd  sooner  hear  an  owl  screeching  the 
hoarseness  out  of  itself  on  a  long  night  than  listen 
to  one  of  them  poems." 

"Well — why  not  think  it?"  said  I  eagerly. 
"What  harm  is  there  to  a  man  to  believe  in  faeries?" 

He  sat  staring  for  a  long  while  into  the  fire  as 
though  meditating  upon  thoughts  his  mind  had  sud- 
denly been  reawakened  to.  I  would  not  interrupt 
him,  but  let  him  think.  At  last  he  looked  up  at  me 
with  that  same  intensity  of  inward  light  still  in  his 
eyes. 

"What  would  the  Bishop  say,"  he  asked,  "and 
he  hearing  that  Father  Dorgan  believed  in  faeries? 
Shure  don't  ye  know  that  the  Faith  has  no  call  for 
faeries  at  all?  The  souls  of  the  departed  dead  are 
in  Purgatory  and  isn't  that  enough  for  any  man  to 
be  believing?" 

"Yet  many  of  these  people  round  here,"  said  I, 
"who  go  regularly  to  Mass  every  Sunday,  they  be- 
lieve in  faeries.  Would  their  lives  be  quite  as  they 
are,  would  they  be  so  near  to  the  truth  of  things,  if 
they  didn't?" 

"Ye  put  great  honor  on  the  faeries,"  he  remarked 
presently. 

"I  do,"  said  I. 

"D'ye  believe  in  them  yeerself  ?" 

"No — I  wish  I  could.  I  wish  I  could  reduce  my 
mind  to  that  state  of  simplicity.  I  can't.  It's  ham- 
pered and  choked  up  by  all  the  thousand  disadvan- 

81 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

tages  of  education;  like  yours  is — if  you'll  forgive 
my  saying  so — by  religion.  I'm  not  a  Protestant; 
you  can't  accuse  rtle  of  party  faith;  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  all  forms  of  orthodoxy  such  as  you  find  in 
religion  and  in  education,  they  all  destroy  the  free- 
dom that  is  the  only  salvation  in  the  soul  of  a  man. 
I've  no  doubt  that  education  teaches  the  mind  to 
think,  but  not  with  any  freedom ;  only  on  those  lines 
which  education  itself  has  formulated  for  one  and 
all  alike.  Scholarship  is  the  whole  system,  to  achieve 
which  a  man  must  cram  his  head  with  prescribed 
knowledge.  But  that  has  no  meaning  for  the  free- 
dom of  his  soul.  It's  only  because  I've  been  brought 
up  under  that  system  of  education  and  you  in  that 
orthodoxy  of  religion  that,  failing  a  belief  that  the 
faeries  took  Anna  Quartermaine,  we  can  only  con- 
ceive of  her  death  as  that  of  a  sordid  murder.  So 
•you  say  that,  since  you  can't  believe  she  is  still  walk- 
ing the  fields  in  Foildarrig  it  drives  your  mind  to 
£nd  no  music  in  any  of  Anthony  Sorel's  poetry.  Isn't 
that  slavery  of  the  mind?  Aren't  there  a  million 
tones  and  colors  between  white  and  black — and  when 
we  talk  like  that,  aren't  we  blind  to  every  blessed  one 
of  them?" 

He  straightened  himself  up  in  his  chair  and  took 
a  sip  of  his  punch. 

"Ye've  got  dangerous  talk  in  ye,  young  man,"  said 
he.  "If  we  all  had  that  freedom  of  soul,  Hell  'ud 
be  a  queer  place  and  over-full,  I'm  thinking." 

"Would  it?"  I  exclaimed.  "Can  you  point  a  fin- 
ger of  accusation  at  the  morals  and  virtues  of  these 

82 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

very  people  of  yours  who  despite  your  Mass  and 
your  confessional,  still  have  a  freedom  of  soul  which 
not  even  the  power  of  Rome  can  take  away  from 
them?  Over  in  England,  we  call  them  superstitious. 
We  think  of  them  with  minds  still  wrapped  in  the 
darkness  of  superstition.  But  isn't  it  because  the 
thing  we  call  progress  is  no  progress  at  all?  All  our 
science  is  engaged  in  adding  a  few  years  to  the  life 
of  the  body,  as  if  that  mattered  when  the  body  must 
die  in  the  end.  And  so  it  is  that  the  valuation  of  life 
has  become  absurd.  The  deeper  we  study  Nature 
with  instruments  and  with  microscopes,  the  further 
we  get  away  from  her,  the  more  we  shrink  from 
death.  And  the  more  we  shrink  from  death,  the 
firmer  grows  the  belief  in  us  that  there  is  no  life  for 
the  soul  hereafter.  How  can  a  man  believe  in  his 
own  soul  if  he's  so  concerned  with  the  life  of  his 
body?  Can  a  man  escape  out  of  prison  if  he  is  for- 
ever striving  to  make  unbreakable  the  chains  which 
bind  him?" 

Father  Dorgan  regarded  me  steadily  as  though 
the  heresy  that  I  spoke  must  be  excused  in  me  be- 
cause I  was  not  of  his  faith.  But  added  to  the  mean- 
ing of  that  glance,  or  perhaps  it  was  only  my  fancy, 
I  seemed  to  see  a  light  of  envy  in  his  eyes.  He  had 
wished — so  he  had  said  to  me — that  he  could  be  as 
mad  as  Malachi,  if  it  would  enable  him  to  see  the 
things  Malachi  saw.  Now  I  felt  that  he  wished  he 
could  be  as  free  in  his  speech  as  I.  His  next  question 
almost  convinced  me  that  my  fancy  was  not  false. 

"What  do  ye  make  of  the  faeries  then?"  he  asked. 

83 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Symbols,"  said  I — expressing  for  the  first  time 
in  words  those  thoughts  that  had  come  to  me  in  the 
mountains — "symbols  of  all  our  untraceable  moods. 
That's  as  far  as  I've  got.  If  I  were  to  live  long 
enough  in  these  mountains,  perhaps  I  should  become 
simple  enough  to  be  able  to  see  them  myself.  But 
because  I'm  not,  I  don't  believe  that  other  people 
don't  see  them." 

"I've  thought  that  myself,"  said  he.  "I've 
thought  they  can't  have  all  this  talk  in  them  and  they 
seeing  nothing  at  all.  But  what  sort  of  moods  d'ye 
mean  ?  Shure  how  can  ye  have  a  symbol  of  a  mood  ?" 

I  seized  upon  a  simile,  the  first  that  came  haphaz- 
ard to  my  mind. 

"What  do  you  feel  when  the  mist  comes  down 
from  the  mountains?"  I  asked — "when  all  day  long 
it  drips  in  drops  of  water  from  the  trees  all  round 
you  here  and  night  seems  like  an  abortion,  born  be- 
fore its  time?  What  do  you  feel  then?" 

"Faith,  I  feel  as  if  me  heart  was  made  of  lead 
and  I'd  take  to  the  grave  as  soon  as  look  at  a  man." 

"Well — isn't  that  a  mood?  And  doesn't  the  mist 
from  the  mountains  bring  it  down  upon  you?  And 
in  that  mood,  wouldn't  you  do  things  you  wouldn't 
dream  of  doing  when  the  sun  was  up  and  the  sky 
was  blue — when  God  was  in  his  Heaven  as  Brown- 
ing said?  Who's  to  judge  you  for  what  you  do  in 
such  a  mood  as  that?  What  brought  it?  The  mist. 
Isn't  that  mist  then  the  creator  of  your  mood  and 
with  but  a  little  effort  couldn't  you  let  your  imagina- 
tion stretch  forth  to  see  that  mist  as  the  breath  of 

84 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

some  unholy  thing  that  had  crept  its  way  down  the 
mountainside  to  poison  you?  Then  wouldn't  that 
unholy  thing  become  the  symbol  of  your  mood  ?  And 
when  you  laugh  and  when  you  sing  to  yourself — and 
when  you  despair  and  when  you  determine — aren't 
all  those  moods,  coming  from  such  impulses  as  you 
can  never  detect?  Why  not  symbols  for  them  all? 
There  are  good  faeries,  there  are  bad  faeries,  there 
are  faeries  of  death  and  faeries  of  life.  That's  what 
faeries  are — the  symbols  of  all  those  things  in  life 
which  none  of  us  will  ever  understand.  We  teach 
them  to  our  children — less  and  less  it's  true — but 
we  never  teach  them  to  ourselves,  because  we  think 
that  our  wisdom  of  progress  can  do  without  them. 
Our  study  is  of  the  body.  But  faeries  are  bodiless 
things.  They  take  shape  to  themselves,  but  they  are 
all  shapes  that  vanish  in  the  thin  air.  Why  shouldn't 
Anthony  Sorel  have  killed  Anna  Quartermaine  for  a 
reason  that  neither  you  nor  I  can  understand?  But 
just  because  it  was  the  body  he  killed  and  by  the 
body  that  he  must  be  judged,  they  set  him  up  there 
to  receive  justice  at  the  hands  of  fallible  men. 
Twelve  men  decide  upon  the  facts.  As  if  facts 
count  when  facts  and  bodies  are  the  only  things  that 
die." 

He  got  up  and  stirred  the  fire. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  be  talkin'  to  ye  at 
all,"  said  he.  "Faith,  ye'd  talk  a  hen  off  of  her  eggs 
— ye  would  so.  But  I  don't  know  that  what  ye're 
after  saying  doesn't  stir  up  a  good  many  things  I'd 
be  thinking  meself.  Mind  ye  I  can't  quite  under- 

85 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

stand  why  a  young  man  like  that  should  be  killing  a 
woman  like  herself,  unless  'twas  the  way  the  wits 
had  gone  out  of  him.  But  there  was  never  said  any- 
thing about  that  at  the  trial.  I  do  believe  they  had 
the  doctor  to  him  but  the  doctor  found  him  sane 
enough.  And  another  thing  I  can't  understand  is 
why  she  came  to  be  dressed  in  those  colleen's  clothes 
an'  she  livin'  like  a  high  lady  down  in  a  great  house 
in  Ballysaggartmore." 

"How  much  do  you  know  about  her?"  I  inquired. 

"Oh — shure,  I  know  what  Father  Killery  told  me 
and  he  hearing  it  first  hand  from  Father  Nolan  what 
went  before  him.  'Twas  Father  Nolan  knew  her 
well.  Shure,  didn't  he  hear  herself  in  confession." 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  you  know?" 

"Well  indeed  then,  there's  no  harm  in  telling," 
said  he  and  he  drew  his  chair  round  before  the  dying 
fire  and  told  me  what  he  knew. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THERE'S  no  doubt,"  said  he— "she  had  the 
beauty  of  all  women  in  her  face." 

This  was  what  Malachi  had  said  of 
Maggie  Donovan.  It  was  indeed  a  saying  of  the 
people,  a  simple  phrase  enough,  but  full  of  ex- 
pression as  they  speak  it. 

"She  must  have  been  a  woman  with  thirty  years 
to  her,"  he  went  on  presently — "and  she  living 
in  Ballysaggartmore  from  a  child.  Her  father 
was  an  Englishman,  but  her  mother  was  one  of 
the  Connells  of  Castle  Connell  away  there  in 
County  Tipp'rary.  'Twas  they  could  trace  their 
names  back  to  the  kings  of  Ireland,  and  the  house 
in  Ballysaggartmore  belonged  to  them." 

"Why  did  she  never  marry?"  I  asked. 

There  was  the  need  with  him  as  there  was  with 
Malachi,  to  prompt  with  questions.  He  was  ever 
in  danger  of  drifting  into  the  contemplation  of 
his  own  thoughts. 

"She  wasn't  married — was  she?" 

He  had  not  answered  my  first  question,  where- 
fore I  urged  him  again. 

"She  was  not,"  he  replied  at  last — "and  she  with 
all  the  sons  of  the  gentry  round  making  offers 
to  her  an'  not  one  of  them  to  her  likin'.  I'm  think- 
in'  'tis  queer  she  was,  she  livin'  there  all  with  her- 

8? 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

self  in  that  big  house.  The  old  man  died  when 
herself  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  and  her  mother  was 
soon  after  him." 

"Did  she  never  go  away  at  all — to  England  or 
abroad?" 

"She  did  indeed.  Every  year  they'd  shut  up  the 
big  house  the  way  'twould  look  as  if  the  ghosts  had 
brought  a  bad  name  to  it  and  away  she'd  go  with  all 
them  servants  sent  back  to  their  homes.  An'  months 
'ud  go  by,  nobody  knowing  where  her  ladyship  was, 
till  suddenly  the  train  would  come  into  Lismore  one 
fine  morning  and  there'd  be  boxes  piled  up  on  the 
platform  an'  it  steamin'  out  of  the  station.  '  'Tis 
Anna  Quartermaine  come  back  from  her  jour- 
neys,' they'd  say,  an'  shure  weren't  they  right? 
All  the  boxes  would  go  up  to  the  house  in  Bally- 
saggartmore  and  herself  would  come  back  the  next 
day.  Shure  ye'd  see  the  servants  lollin'  out  of  the 
windows  and  the  whole  place  lookin'  as  if  it  were 
alive  again.  Oh,  indeed  there  were  queer  stories 
goin'  about  in  those  days  with  herself  comin'  back 
after  three  months'  absence.  Wasn't  there  one 
man  goin'  about  the  world  over,  said  he'd  seen 
herself  an'  she  walkin'  in  the  cities  of  Egypt,  the 
way  she'd  be  walkin'  down  by  the  side  of  the  Black- 
water?  I  dunno,  was  it  true,  but  Father  Nolan 
had  the  tale  to  himself  from  the  man  who  saw 
her." 

"Well — that's  quite  possible,"  said  I — "many 
people  go  to  Egypt.  Thousands  go  out  from  Eng- 
land to  winter  there.  But  if  she  traveled  as  much 

88 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

as  all  that,  how  is  it  she  never  met  anyone  to  take 
her  fancy?  She  was  wealthy — wasn't  she?" 

"Indeed,  she'd  a  power  of  money,"  said  he. 

But  what  might  have  been  a  power  of  money  to 
him  and  all  the  people  over  there,  may  not  in 
reality  have  been  so  considerable  a  sum.  With 
five  hundred  pounds  a  year  a  girl  is  an  heiress  in 
the  South  of  Ireland.  There  are  plenty  of  offers 
of  marriage  waiting  for  her. 

I  have  seen  the  house  myself  in  Ballysaggart- 
more,  and  though  in  comparison  with  the  houses 
in  the  neighborhood,  it  is  imposing  enough,  there 
is  nothing  in  it  to  suggest  that  any  fabulous  amount 
of  wealth  would  have  been  needed  for  its  up-keep. 
It  stands  in  its  own  grounds,  completely  hidden 
from  the  road,  with  a  little  thatched  cottage  at 
the  lodge  gates.  There  must  be  thirty  acres  there 
of  fields  and  garden  round  the  house  itself. 

At  the  time  I  went  there  it  was  unoccupied  and 
with  a  little  persuasion  on  my  part,  the  old  woman 
at  the  lodge  showed  me  over.  There  were  some 
fine  rooms  in  it — one  room  in  particular  that  faced 
away  to  the  mountains.  It  was  in  that  room,  so 
she  told  me,  that  Anna  Quartermaine  had  lavished 
the  full  expression  of  that  taste  there  is  no  doubt 
she  possessed. 

"They  say  'twas  hung  wid  purple,"  said  she — 
"the  way  ye'd  think  'twas  halfways  to  the  grave." 

But  this  I  can  well  believe  was  exaggeration, 
grown  as  stories  do  so  swiftly  grow,  out  of  the  air  of 
mystery  surrounding  her  name.  All  that  I  gathered 

89 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

from  the  various  accounts  I  received  in  Ballysag- 
gartmore,  was  that  she  was  a  woman  of  keenly 
artistic  perceptions  and  taste — a  type  of  mind  which 
I  have  no  doubt  was  little  understood  by  the  people 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact. 

Things,  for  instance,  have  been  told  me  which 
prove  to  my  mind  that  she  was  no  more  peculiar 
than  many  a  woman  I  have  known  who  likes  to  be 
surrounded  with  beautiful  things.  Yet  it  was  this 
very  culture  in  her  which,  to  the  people  of  Bally- 
saggartmore,  appeared  to  indicate  a  strangeness  of 
temperament  they  were  too  gentle  in  their  thoughts 
to  call  insane.  Even  Father  Dorgan  still  carried 
the  impression  in  his  mind  that  she  was  queer.  I 
have  no  such  thoughts  myself.  As  I  have  seen  her, 
Anna  Quartermaine  was  an  intensely  human  woman. 

Beautiful  she  must  have  been.  I  see  no  reason 
to  suppose  that  they  exaggerated  upon  that  score. 
The  picture  I  have  seen  of  her  bears  it  out. 

She  was  tall  and  nobly  made.  Her  love  of  the 
country  where  for  miles  she  walked  alone  into  the 
mountains,  must  well  have  added  health  to  her 
beauty.  Advanced  even  in  those  days,  as  her  taste 
appears  to  have  been,  I  have  found  no  trace  of  a 
mind  that  was  abnormal  or  distorted,  as  the  mind  so 
often  is,  by  a  cult  of  beauty. 

Dressed  in  fitting  garments,  they  say,  she  would 
often  set  forth  in  the  morning,  a  walking-stick  in 
her  hand,  a  dog  at  her  heels,  turning  her  face  up 
the  mountain  road  and  only  returning  when  evening 
had  well  set  in.  There  is  a  cottage  on  the  moor- 

90 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

land  above  Ballyduff  where  lives  an  old  couple 
who  well  remember  her  coming  to  their  door  for 
a  cup  of  milk  and  a  piece  of  griddle  bread.  This 
seems  to  have  been  the  only  way  she  took  her  meals 
when  on  those  journeys. 

"A  short  skirteen  she'd  on  her,"  they  told  me, 
"an'  she  wid  the  mud  on  her  boots  the  way 
she  might  have  been  liftin'  the  praties  in  the 
fields." 

This  picture,  combined  with  that  portrait  I  saw, 
of  a  woman  dressed  so  beautifully,  even  then,  that 
one  forgot  the  cruel  fashion  of  the  time,  gives  me 
the  impression  of  an  arresting  personality.  I  was 
not  concerned  with  the  suggestion  of  suspicion  in 
the  voices  of  those  who  told  me  that  she  made  use 
of  rouge  upon  her  lips  and  cheeks.  Unknown  as 
it  may  have  been  in  those  days  for  one  in  her  posi- 
tion, I  am  only  the  more  convinced  of  that  original- 
ity in  her  which  must  so  deeply  have  stirred  the  im- 
pressionable mind  of  Anthony  Sorel. 

Anna  Quartermaine  was  an  uncommon  woman, 
of  that  I  have  no  doubt.  The  very  fact  of  her  un- 
married existence  alone  in  that  old  house  is  proof 
of  it;  the  sudden  tragedy  of  her  death,  a  greater 
proof  than  all.  But  notwithstanding  all  this,  I 
carry  no  impression  of  an  unnatural  creature  in  my 
mind.  As  the  work  of  some  men  is  before  their 
time,  so  the  temperament  of  Anna  Quartermaine 
must  have  been  in  advance  of  the  conditions  in 
which  she  lived.  There  may  be,  indeed  there  are 
many  like  her  to-day;  women  who  refuse  the  limita- 
7  91 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

tions  of  the  state  of  matrimony  because  a  wild  free- 
dom of  imagination  in  them  cannot  submit  to  its 
narrow  boundaries. 

Still,  remembering  Father  Dorgan's  statement 
that  she  was  queer,  I  pressed  him  further  on  that 
point. 

"Would  you  deny  women  a  right  to  freedom," 
I  asked  him,  "just  because  the  vast  majority  of 
them  seem  to  have  no  particular  liking  for  it?  I 
can't  see  that  there  was  anything  queer  about  Anna 
Quartermaine.  It's  not  necessarily  queer  to  be  dif- 
ferent from  other  people.  Can't  you  conceive  a 
woman  having  such  exacting  ideals,  that  she  keeps 
herself  aloof  from  marriage  rather  than  sacrifice 
the  most  vital  possession  she  has  for  the  doubtful 
benefits  of  convenience?" 

"  'Tis  not  natural,"  said  he  with  rigid  conviction. 
"Shure,  if  a*  be  'twas  natural  would  she  have 
been  found  up  there  in  the  stretch  of  the  heather, 
she  with  the  blood  still  warm  on  her  breast  an'  her 
blind  eyes  turned  up  to  the  stars?  She  would  not. 
For  what  was  there  natural  in  that?  'Twas  an  un- 
holy passion  that  brought  her  to  such  a  pass  as 
that.  Faith,  isn't  that  why  they  hushed  up  the 
whole  affair  and  she  one  of  the  Connells  of  Castle 
Connell?" 

I  leant  forward  in  my  chair  and  stared  for  long 
into  the  fire.  I  felt  then  that  I  was  on  the  verge  of 
understanding. 

"If  you  and  I  could  believe  in  faeries,"  said  I, 
"we  might  be  capable  of  the  conception  of  a  pas- 

92 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

sion  great  enough  to  have  passed  all  question  of 
unholiness.  It's  her  death  that  makes  it  unholy  to 
us.  We  think  of  that  which  severs  life  from  the 
body  and  with  our  valuation  of  it,  can  imagine  no 
more  terrible  thing.  Why  should  not  a  man's  pas- 
sion for  a  woman,  or  hers  for  him,  be  so  tran- 
scendent a  thing  as  that  death  becomes  a  little  thing 
beside  it?  Have  we  lost  all  the  conception  of  an 
overwhelming  and  imperishable  love  such  as  they 
had  in  the  days  of  Dante  and  Beatrice?  Was 
death  anything  to  them?  Are  we  such  languid, 
weakly  creatures  now  that  we  cannot  rise  to  such 
heights  of  passion  as  are  reached  in  death?  You 
think  the  love — for  love  there  must  have  been — of 
Anna  Quartermaine  for  Anthony  Sorel  was  an  un- 
holy and  sensual  thing — well,  look  at  this — " 

I  pulled  out  of  my  pocket  the  ring  I  had  found 
in  Anthony  Sorel's  cottage  and  laid  it  on  the  table 
there  before  him. 

So  evidently  had  it  been  a  woman's  ring  that  I 
was  prepared  to  uphold  it  as  a  gift  from  her  to 
him. 

"Look  at  the  inscription,"  I  went  on,  when  I 
had  told  him  how  I  had  come  by  it.  "Look  at  the 
inscription;  engraved  on  it,  so  I  believe,  solely  for 
him,  when  she  gave  the  thing  to  him.  The  letters 
are  cut,  long  since  the  ring  was  made.  The  sharp- 
ness of  them  held  the  earth.  It  was  with  difficulty 
I  rubbed  them  clear." 

He  read  it  in  an  uncertain  voice. 

"  'Out  of  the  earth — '  "  and  then  again — "  'out 
93 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  the  earth' — well — what  do  ye  make  of  that?" 
he  asked. 

I  opened  the  book  of  poems,  turning  with  cer- 
tain fingers  to  the  verses  it  contained  in  which  that 
very  phrase  was  used. 

"That's  what  I  make  of  it,"  said  I. 

What  shall  we  win,  you  and  I, 
Out  of  the  earth? 
What  shall  we  win, 
If  we  toil  and  spin? — 
Will  the  day  draw  out 
To  a  night  of  doubt 
Ere  we  win,  you  and  I, 
Out  of  the  earth  ? 

What  shall  we  win,  you  and  I, 
Out  of  the  earth? 
Where  the  dew  is  wet, 
Are  there  jewels  yet 
You  never  wore? 
Can  love  yield  more 
Ere  we  win — you  and  I, 
Out  of  the  earth? 

He  laid  the  book  down  on  the  table,  placing  his 
hand  upon  the  closed  cover  as  though  it  were  a  story 
that  was  ended,  a  matter  past  the  need  of  speech. 
For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  nothing  fur- 
ther to  say,  but  at  last  he  raised  his  eyes  and  looked 
at  me. 

"There  are  so  many  worlds,"  said  he  enigmat- 
ically. "Shure,  how  can  a  man  live  in  them  all  in  one 
lifetime?" 

94 


CHAPTER  IX 

THIS  was  the  first,  but  not  the  last  of  the  visits 
I  paid  to  Father  Dorgan  while  I  was  in 
Araglin.  A  tentative,  half  timid  desire  in 
the  man  to  touch  the  knowledge  of  those  things  his 
faith  denied  him,  was  greatly  attractive  to  me.  He 
was  so  fervently  a  Catholic  and  yet  so  drawn,  by 
all  the  Celtic  influences  within  him,  to  the  visionary 
spirit. 

"Ye've  got  the  dangerous  speech  in  ye,"  he  was 
always  saying  to  me  and  if  indeed  there  was  any- 
thing I  might  say  which  ever  could  be  dangerous, 
I  felt  it  was  a  danger  he  courted  rather  than 
feared. 

We  might  talk  of  a  thousand  different  things,  but 
always  the  conversation  came  round  to  the  same 
topic,  the  death  of  Anna  Quartermaine  and  how  the 
visionary  spirit  and  the  freedom  of  the  imagina- 
tion could  alter  one's  whole  aspect  of  that  tragedy 
in  the  hills.  I  have  known  a  Catholic  priest  to 
play  with  the  fire  of  science,  burning  the  fingers  of 
his  faith  yet  ever  drawn  to  it  as  a  child  to  the 
forbidden  fire.  It  was  so  with  Father  Dorgan 
and  the  subject  we  so  often  discussed. 

When  he  sprinkled  the  four  corners  of  Power's 
fields  with  holy  water,  it  was  he  assured  me  as  one 
dispensing  the  blessing  of  God  upon  the  harvest 

95 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

to  come.  But  Power  himself  openly  confessed  to 
me,  it  was  to  keep  off  the  evil  faeries. 

"Don't  they  take  the  seeds,"  said  he,  "for  their 
own  harvest  and  isn't  it  the  way  they  put  grains  of 
sand  into  the  furrows  to  fool  ye — deuce  take  'em !" 

I  have  my  suspicions  that  much  of  this  was  in 
Father  Dorgan's  mind  as  well,  for  one  evening  he 
said  to  me, 

"What  right  have  ye  to  be  believing  in  the 
faeries?  Weren't  ye  born  a  Protestant  and  isn't 
there  English  blood  in  ye  to  the  tips  of  yeer  fin- 
gers?" 

It  was  almost  as  though  he  resented  my  point 
of  view,  for  no  matter  how  earnestly  I  assured  him 
that  I  wished  my  mind  were  so  simple  in  its  atti- 
tude, I  think  he  never  really  understood  how  the 
willingness  of  the  spirit  to  believe  could  not  con- 
quer the  impotence  of  the  flesh  to  see.  He  has  even 
taunted  me  with  seeing  these  bodiless  spirits  on 
the  mountainside,  all  in  good  humor  but  with,  I 
believe,  a  taint  of  jealousy  in  his  thoughts. 

From  him  I  learnt  a  great  deal  more  of  Anna 
Quartermaine  which  must  be  written  when  the  tale 
comes  to  be  told.  Father  Nolan  it  appears  had 
known  her  well  and  had  spoken  freely  to  Father 
Killery,  from  whom  Father  Dorgan  had  gathered 
his  facts. 

I  do  not  wish  here  for  one  moment  to  infer  that 
any  confidence  such  as  he  might  have  learnt  in  the 
confessional  was  ever  repeated  by  one  priest  to  the 
other.  Had  I  heard  such  things,  I  might  indeed 

96 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

have  been  able  to  lay  bare  the  very  secrets  of  her 
soul.  This  information  that  I  gathered  and  with 
infinite  pains,  was  only  from  such  report  as  might 
well  have  been  spread  about  her  by  one  who  knew 
her  well.  And  what  I  heard  from  Father  Dorgan, 
from  many  another  too  beside,  all  the  merest  scraps 
of  history  that  I  could  gather  together,  I  have 
knit  in  one  story — the  tale  of  Anthony  Sorel  and 
Anna  Quartermaine. 

Yet  without  that  which  I  learnt  from  Malachi,  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  write.  And  it  was 
Malachi  who  kept  silence  longest  of  all.  Day 
after  day  I  visited  him  up  in  the  hills  until  he  had 
found  the  ease  of  speech  with  me.  He  would  talk 
indeed  of  a  thousand  things,  but  never  the  subject 
I  needed  from  him  most  of  all. 

Through  him  my  mind  became  imbued  with  all 
the  grand  and  passionate  simplicity  of  Irish  folk- 
lore. Even  though  he  was  so  seldom  seen  by  any 
of  those  who  lived  in  the  neighboring  villages,  yet 
he  had  a  wide  reputation  as  a  teller  of  tales.  There 
are  many  his  like  in  the  more  remote  parts  of  Ire- 
land. They  seem  to  perpetuate  the  old  spirit  of 
the  wandering  bards,  telling  their  stories  in  the 
wild  poetry  of  prose  and  always  concluding  their 
narratives  with  the  simple  finality,  "That  is  my 
story." 

Malachi  never  told  his  stories  twice  in  the  same 
way.  I  learnt  by  that,  for  I  heard  many  of  them 
again  and  again,  how  much  he  brought  his  imagi- 
nation to  bear  upon  the  telling  of  them.  Their 

97 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

substance  seldom  differed;  it  was  the  details  that 
changed.  There  was  one  story  of  a  great  lady  in 
Connemara  that  he  told  me  three  separate  times, 
and  every  time  he  dressed  her  in  different  garments, 
calling  upon  the  beauties  of  Nature  for  his  like- 
nesses, and  each  time  his  descriptions  became  more 
wonderful  in  their  poetic  conception. 

This  drawing  upon  Nature  for  his  ceaseless  need 
of  imagery  was  characteristic  of  all  the  tales  he 
told.  As  he  had  said  of  Maggie  Donovan,  "She 
was  as  beautiful  as  a  blackthorn  bush  on  a  long 
Spring  day,"  so  he  gave  pictorially  from  Nature 
in  every  story  he  related  to  me. 

I  remember  well  his  description  of  the  great  lady 
in  Connemara — "She  rose  from  her  chair,"  said 
he,  wishing  to  give  me  the  impression  of  the  great- 
ness of  her  anger — "she  rose  from  her  chair,  like 
a  cloud  going  up  into  the  mountains,  and  haven't 
I  seen  sparks  out  av  the  hoofs  av  gallopin'  horses 
would  have  died  black  out  beside  the  light  in  her 
eyes." 

Well  could  a  book  be  made  out  of  the  stories  I 
had  from  Malachi,  those  long  days  in  his  little  cot- 
tage under  the  shadow  of  Knockshunahallion.  But 
the  story  I  so  eagerly  waited  for  him  to  tell  me, 
of  that  I  heard  nothing. 

Whenever  I  mentioned  the  name  of  Anthony 
Sorel,  or  spoke  of  Anna  Quartermaine,  the  lids 
of  his  eyes  tightened  the  one  upon  the  other.  His 
withered  skin  puckered  into  a  thousand  wrinkles 
and  the  whole  mentality  of  him  seemed  to  shrink 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

to  nothingness  before  me.  He  never  definitely  told 
me  that  he  would  not  speak  of  it,  for  words  were 
not  needed  from  him  then.  He  became  like  a  book 
that  is  sealed  and  locked  upon  the  lectern.  Its 
pages  were  no  longer  open  for  me  to  read  and 
usually,  when  it  came  to  this,  he  would  speak  but 
little  upon  any  subject,  withdrawing  his  mind  into 
that  silent  contemplation  from  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  distract  him. 

One  day  I  found  him  seated  over  his  fire,  racked 
with  a  cold  and  struggling  to  get  the  warmth  into 
him. 

He  spoke  despairingly  of  death,  a  subject  he 
often  talked  about  but  never  with  such  melancholy 
as  then. 

"Won't  ut  be  comin'  on  me,"  said  he,  "in  the 
black  of  the  night  and  I  like  an  old  tree  beaten  by 
the  wind  alone  up  here  in  the  mountains?  Yirra — 
God  be  wid  the  days,  for  the  days  are  long  and  'tis 
mighty  little  comfort  a  pore  man  like  meself  would 
be  gettin'  out  av  them.  Who  will  there  be  to  lay 
me  out  and  I  slippin'  out  av  the  world  wid  no  priest 
to  put  his  hands  on  me?  O  Almighty  God,  what 
would  a  man  be  doin'  in  the  darkness  when  the 
light  av  the  day  is  gone?" 

So  he  talked,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro,  his 
mind  wrestling  with  the  fatalism  of  death. 

"You  want  a  little  spirit,"  said  I,  "to  get  the 
blood  warm  in  your  veins — then  you  won't  be  think- 
ing so  much  about  dying." 

"Is  ut  whisky  ye  mane?"  he  asked. 
99 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

I  nodded  my  head. 

"An*  where  would  I  be  gettin'  the  spirit  from?" 
he  asked  me.  "Isn't  the  price  of  a  bottle  of  that 
stuff  what  would  keep  me  here  in  this  cottage  till 
to-morrow  was  a  month?" 

"You  haven't  got  any  in  the  place?" 

"I  have  not.  Wouldn't  I  be  drinkin'  it  now  the 
way  a  cat  'ud  lap  milk  out  of  a  saucer?" 

"I'll  go  down  to  Araglin  now,  at  once,"  said  I, 
"and  get  you  some." 

"Six  miles?"  said  he. 

"Well — I'll  be  back  in  an  hour  and  a  half.  Put 
something  round  your  shoulders  and  sit  tight  into 
the  fire.  It's  going  to  be  a  bitter  night.  You'll 
want  all  the  warmth  you  can  get." 

He  was  gazing  up  at  me  in  wonder,  scarcely  be- 
lieving yet  that  I  was  going  to  do  this  thing  for 
him.  But  when  I  went  to  the  door,  he  realized  that 
I  was  in  earnest. 

"May  the  blessin'  of  God  Almighty  rest  on  ye," 
said  he,  "and  may  all  the  hairs  in  yeer  head  turn 
into  mold  candles  to  light  yeer  soul  to  glory  on 
the  last  day." 

With  that  blessing  ringing  in  my  ears,  I  closed 
the  door  behind  me  and  set  out  in  the  driving  rain 
down  the  mountain  road  to  Araglin. 


CHAPTER  X 

AS  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  remember  that  night, 
not  only  when  I  climbed  back  up  the  moun- 
tain road,  with  the  rain  washing  in  tor- 
rents down  the  gutters  it  made  for  itself,  but  all 
the  long  hours  afterwards  till  dawn.  Yet  they 
were  not  long  hours  to  me.  Never  indeed  will  the 
hours  of  a  night  without  sleep  pass  so  swiftly  by 
for  me  again. 

It  was  after  six  o'clock  when  I  started  back  from 
Foley's  public-house  with  the  black  bottle  of  whisky 
under  my  arm.  The  daylight  was  vanishing  then 
in  rents  of  orange  across  a  sky  of  sullen  gray.  All 
of  the  men  in  the  bar  parlor  of  the  inn  told  me  it 
would  be  a  fearsome  night.  If  the  mists  came  up, 
they  warned  me,  I  might  lose  my  way  when  I  re- 
turned. But  I  had  made  the  journey  so  often  I 
had  no  fear  of  that. 

As  I  climbed  the  mountain  road  with  its  loose 
stone  wall  on  either  side,  where  rock  plants  grew 
in  company  with  numberless  Irish  ferns  and  harts- 
tongues  thrusting  their  leaves  out  of  the  crevices, 
I  could  hear  the  murmur  of  the  wind  rising  away 
across  the  mountains  to  the  west.  It  was  like 
the  cry  of  men  far  off  in  battle;  men  striving  against 
the  power  of  men  in  mighty  anger.  Malachi  would 
have  told  me  it  was  the  voices  of  the  hosts  of  the 

101 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Sidhe  as  they  sweep  in  their  thousands  down  the 
passes  of  the  untrodden  hills. 

I  realized  then  how  surely  I  was  coming  under 
the  influence  of  these  mountain  visionaries,  for 
every  sound  I  heard,  conveyed  in  the  heart  of  it 
the  likeness  to  some  human  note.  A  curlew  cried 
across  the  moorland  and  it  fell  on  my  ears  like  the 
lonely  cry  of  a  child.  And  what  child,  they  would 
have  argued,  could  have  found  its  way  into  the 
silences  of  those  hills  at  such  an  hour?  Then,  as 
they  reached  their  humble  firesides,  they  would  have 
told  how  the  faerie  children  had  been  crying  in  the 
blackness  of  the  storm.  The  very  sound  of  it  would 
have  urged  a  speed  into  their  feet  as  they  toiled 
homewards.  With  the  loneliness  of  that  crying 
coming  over  me,  I  found  myself  quickening  my 
own. 

As  I  climbed  over  the  wall  of  the  road  to  reach 
the  rough  path  through  the  heather,  a  donkey  gath- 
ered itself  hastily  to  its  feet  and  hurried  away  with 
ears  laid  back  into  the  darkness.  My  heart  for- 
got its  beating  and  then  with  a  sudden  leap  in  my 
breast,  drove  the  hot  blood  burning  to  my  cheeks. 
After  a  moment,  I  stumbled  on,  falling  again  and 
again  over  the  roots  of  the  heather,  feeling  the 
distance  to  be  never  so  long  as  then,  in  the  gloomy 
darkness  of  the  over-riding  night. 

For  seldom  have  I  felt  such  desolation  before. 
The  deep  gray  moors  and  rising  mountains  stretched 
out  around  me  like  a  deserted  continent.  Never  a 
light  was  there,  no  sign  of  life  but  the  wildest.  The 

102 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

beating  of  an  owl's  wings  as  it  flew  by  me,  its 
mournful  cry  dying  away  into  the  distance  of  the 
hills,  was  like  the  cry  of  a  soul  that  is  lost  be- 
tween the  gulf  of  the  worlds. 

And  all  the  time  as  I  walked,  my  mind  would 
picture  for  me  that  lake  up  in  the  hollow  of  the 
mountains,  where,  as  Malachi  had  said,  at  night 
time,  the  souls  of  those  the  faeries  have  taken 
"do  be  flyin'  in  crooked  circles  with  the  bats  in 
the  shadows  of  the  hills." 

I  struggled  not  to  think  of  it,  for  those  black 
waters  and  ghostly  echoing  cliffs  forced  themselves 
in  an  impenetrable  depression  on  my  mind.  My 
solitude  in  the  midst  of  Nature  bore  down  upon 
me  then.  I  thought  of  a  line  from  one  of  Anthony 
Sorel's  poems,  so  clearly  expressing  that  utter 
melancholy  which  besets  one: 

When  the  earth  is  chill  and  one  human  stave 
Of  music  would  bring  men  from  the  grave. 

He  must  have  known  those  moments  of  solitude 
when  he  wrote  that,  such  solitude  I  felt  stealing 
through  my  flesh  then  as  I  made  my  way  up  into 
the  mountains. 

A  fresh  hope  sprang  up  in  me  when  I  saw  the 
flicker  of  light  in  Malachi's  cottage.  For  the 
moment,  that  was  all  I  needed.  The  thought  of 
my  return  I  could  put  aside  with  the  exquisite  re- 
lief that  sight  of  human  habitation  brought  to  me. 
Perhaps  I  could  put  it  away  the  more  easily,  for 

103 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

in  my  bones  was  the  sensation  that  I  was  not  going 
to  return  that  night. 

I  did  not  return.  But  little  did  I  think  of  the 
thing  that  would  detain  me. 

There  was  yet  the  best  part  of  a  mile  to  be 
walked  before  I  could  reach  his  door,  but  the 
warm  flicker  of  that  light  put  fresh  heart  into  me. 
When  a  black  dog  slunk  by  me,  quitting  the  path 
it  was  following  and  crouching  past  across  the 
heather,  it  struck  no  note  of  fear  in  my  mind.  The 
poor  beast  was  so  apprehensive  of  ill-treatment  at 
my  hands  that  I  stood  for  a  moment  to  watch  it, 
creeping  away  there  into  the  darkness.  It  had  given 
me  a  wide  berth,  cowering  low  to  the  earth  with 
swift  glances  over  its  shoulder.  Only  when  it  was 
some  distance  past  me  did  it  return  to  the  little 
beaten  path  through  the  heather.  I  whistled  to  it. 
You  must  know  the  loneliness  and  fear  of  a  dog 
that  is  lost,  what  a  piteous  thing  it  is.  In  the 
belief  that  the  kindness  of  a  human  voice  can  give 
them  courage,  a  man  must  stop,  no  matter  the  night, 
no  matter  the  weariness  of  his  way. 

I  called  to  it,  but  it  never  paused  in  the  direction 
it  was  going.  A  moment  or  so  I  watched  it  when 
at  last  it  had  faded  away  into  the  blackness  of  the 
night  and  I  continued  my  way,  thinking  of  the 
strange  loneliness  of  that  thing  which  God  had 
made  alive  and  how  bitter  a  place  for  it  the  world 
must  be  on  such  a  thankless  night. 

When  I  was  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
Malachi's  cottage,  the  clouds  blew  over,  leaving  a 

104 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

rent  in  the  heavens  as  brilliant  as  black  ice,  from 
which  the  stars  shone  forth  cold  and  clear,  the  one 
jeweled  piece  in  that  somber  raiment  of  the  sky. 
That  clearing  was  not  of  long  duration.  In  great 
folds  of  lightless,  seamless  gray,  the  heavy  clouds 
swept  on,  with  just  this  tear  in  the  murky  garment 
through  which  an  instant  later  the  light  of  the 
moon  shot  out.  For  that  instant  the  wide  stretches 
of  heather,  the  broken  boundary  walls,  the  narrow 
passes  between  the  hills  and  the  uplifted  moun- 
tains were  all  washed  white  in  moonshine.  From 
a  place  of  gloomy  foreboding,  the  wold  had  sud- 
denly become  one  of  passionate  emotion.  I  gazed 
about  me  as  one  standing  in  a  darkened  gallery 
in  whose  hand,  unawares,  a  naming  torch  has  been 
thrust.  The  earth  glittered  with  light;  it  dazzled 
me.  Before  I  could  realize  it  all,  the  torch  in 
my  hand  had  flared,  the  rent  was  mended  in  the 
garment,  the  clouds  had  closed  over  the  moon.  I 
was  in  utter  darkness  once  again  with  just  the  pin- 
prick of  that  orange  light  winking  at  me  from  the 
window  of  Malachi's  cottage. 

I  did  not  wait  to  knock  upon  the  door,  but  just 
entered,  once  my  fingers  had  found  the  latch.  The 
rain  was  beginning  to  fall  again  and  my  clothes  al- 
ready were  well  drenched  by  it. 

He  was  sitting  there  over  the  fire  as  I  had  left 
him,  crumpled  up  with  his  knees  against  his  chest, 
neither  did  he  move  from  where  he  was,  nor  raise 
his  head  as  I  entered. 

I  closed  the  door  and  shut  out  the  wind  and  rain 
105 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

behind  me.  I  took  off  my  coat  and  shook  it  before 
the  fire.  The  rain  flung  from  it  hissing  and  spit- 
ting into  the  flames.  Still  he  did  not  move. 

"Do  you  feel  any  better?"  I  asked. 

He  moaned  under  his  breath  and  I  knew  that 
the  sickness  of  life  was  still  with  him.  Then  I 
searched  the  dresser  for  a  cup,  pouring  some  whisky 
into  it  and  filling  it  with  water  from  an  old  earthen- 
ware pitcher  on  the  floor.  There  he  kept  the  water 
he  drew  every  morning  from  the  spring  that  bub- 
bled through  the  heather. 

"Take  a  little  of  this,"  said  I.  "Drink  it  all  down 
— the  whole  lot  of  it  if  you  can." 

His  teeth  chattered  against  the  rim  of  the  cup 
as  he  put  it  to  his  lips.  Yet  even  before  it  was 
finished,  it  seemed  his  hand  was  steadier.  Then 
he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  brought  out  a 
piece  of  dillisk — a  seaweed  they  dry  and  bring  up 
from  the  coast,  selling  it  through  the  country.  This 
he  began  chewing  as  though  it  were  a  quid  of  to- 
bacco, his  jaws  working  round  and  round  like  a 
cow  chewing  the  cud. 

It  is  hard  to  say  what  satisfaction  they  get  out 
of  this  habit,  for  dillisk  is  like  leather  in  the  mouth 
and,  to  my  unaccustomed  palate,  brought  only  the 
taste  of  the  brine. 

However  the  mere  fact  of  him  stirring  himself 
to  this  extent,  showed  me  that  the  spirit  had  taken 
its  effect.  He  still  had  no  inclination  to  talk  and 
when  a  little  later  the  storm  broke  in  its  full  fury 
outside,  the  windows  rattling  and  the  old  doors 

106 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

straining  on  their  hinges  as  though  some  wild  beast 
were  trying  to  force  an  entrance,  then  he  fell  to 
shivering  again  and  began  once  more  to  lament 
upon  the  loneliness  of  death. 

I  took  the  bottle  off  the  floor  and  extracted  the 
cork.  He  saw  the  movement  and  his  eyes  shot 
quickly  out  from  the  deep  hollows  where  they  lay. 

"Is  ut  the  way  yeVe  got  more  of  that  stuff  in 
there?"  said  he. 

I  told  him  the  bottle  was  full,  except  for  the 
quantity  I  had  already  given  him.  He  looked  at 
me,  silently  for  a  moment  and  in  wonder. 

"Glory  be  to  God!"  said  he  presently.  "Didn't 
ye  pay  a  power  of  money  for  that?" 

I  told  him  how  much  it  cost,  at  which  he  raised 
his  eyes  above  him,  staring  for  a  while  at  the  rafters 
below  the  thatch. 

"Is  it  the  way  ye  spent  all  that  silver  money  to 
get  me  a  drop  that  'ud  warm  the  blood  in  me  and 
ye  walking  all  the  ways  through  the  storm  of  the 
night?" 

He  could  scarcely  believe  that  any  human  being 
could  be  so  generous.  It  was  not  so  much  the  jour- 
ney I  had  made,  for  he  merely  added  that  as  an 
afterthought.  It  was  the  spending  of  the  money 
that  seemed  such  a  noble  act  to  him,  whereas,  if 
I  took  any  credit  to  myself,  it  was  for  walk- 
ing that  distance,  as  he  said,  in  the  storm  of  the 
night. 

"Well — may  the  Almighty  God  heap  blessin's  on 
ye,"  said  he,  when  at  last  he  realized  that  the  bottle. 
8  107 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

was  full  and  meant  for  him.  "May  the  Almighty 
God  send  ye  the  power  of  good  fortune  and  may 
ye  walk  in  the  land  wid  health  and  happiness  on 
ye  and  all  that  belong  to  ye  to  the  last  day.  Will 
ye  pass  the  bottle  across  to  me  now,  the  way  I 
can  be  helpin'  meself  when  the  sharp  of  that  wind 
there  gets  into  me  blood?" 

I  swear  I  saw  no  harm  in  it.  I  swear  that  at 
that  moment  no  thought  of  what  Father  Dorgan 
had  said  about  him  when  he  had  drink  taken,  ever 
entered  my  mind.  If  he  could  get  no  warmth  from 
his  blood  or  from  the  fire  that  burned  at  his  feet, 
it  was  artificial  warmth  that  he  needed.  I  handed 
the  bottle  across  to  him  and  he  placed  it  down  on 
the  floor  by  his  side. 

I  can  remember  now,  as  the  recollection  of  that 
night  comes  back  to  me,  how  there  were  many 
things  that  he  asked  me  to  do  about  the  room.  One 
of  the  panes  of  glass  in  the  window  was  broken, 
the  rain  came  spitting  through  the  jagged  aperture. 
He  asked  me  to  put  back  the  wad  of  brown  paper 
which  had  been  jammed  there  to  keep  out  the 
draught.  He  asked  me  to  count  the  chickens  under 
the  hatch  of  the  old  dresser,  for  that  he  believed  one 
of  them  had  strayed  and  was  out,  as  he  said,  "in 
the  black  whirl  of  the  storm." 

There  were  other  things  he  pressed  me  to  do 
for  him  and  during  all  these  moments  of  my  oc- 
cupation, he  must  have  been  filling  his  old  cracked 
cup  with  the  whisky  I  had  brought  from  Foley's 
public-house.  However  it  was,  in  half-an-hour  he 

108 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

was  a  different  being.  There  needed  no  incentive 
from  me  to  give  him  speech.  He  launched  forth 
into  the  wildest  extravagance  of  exhaustless  nar- 
rative— tales  of  the  faeries,  of  the  strange  happen- 
ings to  men  and  women  in  those  glens  and  val- 
leys of  the  hills. 

Never  shall  I  remember  them  all;  but  the  dim 
impression  of  their  wild  poetry  remains  with  me 
now.  Phrases  of  speech,  instinct  with  an  unfet- 
tered imagination,  fell  unhesitating  from  his  lips. 
I  can  see  his  wrinkled  face  now  as  he  sat  there  in 
the  faint,  warm  light  of  the  peat  fire,  while  the 
storm  outside  rushed  madly  like  some  hunted  thing 
through  the  hollows  of  the  mountains.  It  was  as 
the  sound  of  a  million  men  stampeding  in  the  de- 
feat of  battle.  At  times,  when  the  wind  shrieked 
and  howled  through  the  faulty  crevices  of  the  doors, 
I  heard  as  it  were  the  crying  of  their  voices  in 
terror  as  they  rushed  ceaselessly  by. 

And  there  he  sat,  sometimes  rocking  himself  to 
and  fro  as  if  to  give  measure  to  the  monotony  of 
his  voice,  his  little  eyes  lit  with  unnatural  flames, 
talking,  endlessly  telling  his  tales  of  the  world,  al- 
most as  though  my  existence  was  not  conscious  to 
his  thoughts. 

Then  suddenly  at  the  conclusion  of  a  story  he 
had  related  about  that  lake  in  the  far  hollows  of 
Knockshunahallion,  he  looked  across  the  red  light 
of  the  fire  at  me  and  filled  the  cracked  cup  again. 

"  'Twas  bi  the  edge  of  thim  waters,  they  laid 
the  hands  on  the  young  fella,  an'  he  with  the  black 

109 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

heart  in  him  an'  his  eyes  struck  wid  the  desolations 
of  the  world." 

It  was  Anthony  Sorel  he  meant  and  this  was  the 
first  time  of  his  own  account  he  had  spoken  of 
him. 

I  claim  no  indulgence  for  the  thing  I  did,  beyond 
the  fact  that  at  the  moment  I  knew  nothing  of  that 
empty  bottle  at  his  feet.  It  is  excuse  or  no  excuse, 
according  to  those  who  judge  me,  that  I  was  so 
eager  for  the  truth.  But  once  he  had  spoken  of 
Anthony  Sorel  of  his  own  free  will,  then,  controlling 
my  eagerness,  acting  the  lie  that  I  did  not  care 
whether  I  heard  it  or  not,  I  encouraged  him  to  tell 
me  more. 

He  was  slow  to  begin,  but  when  he  had  drunk 
more  from  the  cracked  cup  in  his  hand,  it  was  at 
last  that  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  pride  of  his 
story. 

"  'Twill  be  the  Almighty  God  and  He  judging 
him  whin  the  hosts  do  be  blowin'  their  trumpets  on 
the  last  day." 

It  was  with  these  words  that  he  ushered  in  his 
tale  and  there,  in  that  wind-swept  cottage  in  the 
mountains,  with  the  storm  hissing  in  the  thatch  and 
the  raindrops  spitting  into  the  peat  fire,  till  the 
long  hours  of  night  were  treading  on  the  heels  of 
dawn,  he  told  me  the  story  of  Anthony  Sorel  and 
Anna  Quartermaine. 


PART  II 

CHAPTER   I 

THERE  came  one  day  a  young  man  to  Arag- 
lin,  from  some  foreign  place,  so  the  people 
said,  and  he  paid  money  down  to  Michael 
Quinn  for  Heggarty's  cottage  that  had  stood  empty 
on  the  edges  of  Knockshunahallion  ever  since  old 
Heggarty  had  died. 

They  talked  of  the  wits  having  gone  out  of  him 
and  he  paying  good  money  for  that  hovel  of  a 
place,  but  Michael  Quinn  pocketed  the  gold  and 
was  known  to  have  said, 

"There  are  as  many  shillin's  in  a  gold  coin  that 
comes  out  av  an  old  sow's  mouth  as  a  man  'ud  be 
findin'  in  the  mint  itself." 

Who  could  deny  the  truth  of  that?  But  one  and 
all,  they  declared  he  had  got  a  great  bargain  for 
himself  and  there  is  no  doubt  he  had. 

The  only  expense  to  the  vendor  was  the  cost  of 
a  new  thatching,  part  of  the  bargain  entered  into 
and  drawn  out  by  Quinn  on  a  piece  of  paper  he 
got  from  Jim  Keane,  the  publican  then  in  Araglin. 
For  no  sooner  was  the  matter  verbally  agreed  upon, 
than  Quinn,  who  had  once  been  involved  in  legal 
proceedings  at  the  petty  sessions  court  in  Fer- 

in 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

moy,  made  eagerly  to  get  the  substance  in  writing, 
though  he  had  never  heard  of  an  official  stamp 
in  his  life. 

The  business  was  then  concluded  and  a  drop  of 
bad  whisky  drunk  by  Quinn  on  the  strength  of  it 
when  once  he  had  scratched  his  name  across  the 
piece  of  paper,  well  soiled  by  the  exertions  of  his 
legal  propensities. 

"By  this  accordingly — "  so  the  document  was 
worded — "Michael  Quinn  agrees  to  hand  over  the 
cottage  in  the  grip  of  the  hills  that  was  after  being 
old  Heggarty's  cottage  and  will  do  the  same,  having 
put  a  new  thatch  to  it  the  way  it  will  keep  out  the 
drift  of  the  rain,  for  the  sum  of  ten  pounds  which 
no  man  can  say  is  not  a  fair  price." 

It  is  interesting  to  see  how  the  legal  tone  of  the 
agreement  quickly  loses  its  flavor  and  falls  away 
into  the  more  human  measure  of  speech.  It  is  still 
more  interesting  to  observe  that  last  little  touch 
of  a  pricking  conscience,  as  though  he  anticipated 
the  whole  world's  criticism  of  his  bargain  and  would 
have  it  in  writing  that  he  had  dealt  fairly  by  his 
man,  however  much  they  might  declare  in  those 
parts  to  the  contrary. 

At  the  foot  of  this  document,  he  scrawled  his 
name,  Michael  Quinn,  while  below  it,  you  will 
find  the  name,  Anthony  Sorel,  in  tiny  letters  that 
would  need  almost  a  magnifying  glass  to  decipher 
them. 

u  'Twas  himself  didn't  want  the  world  to  be 
knowin'  he'd  put  his  name  to  a  dirty  bargain,"  they 

112 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

said  in  Araglin  when  they  saw  the  signature. 
Michael  Quinn  could  answer  nothing  to  that. 

But  if  they  supposed  that  Anthony  Sorel  thought 
he  had  made  a  bad  settlement,  they  were  much  mis- 
taken. He  bought  some  little  furniture  in  Fer- 
moy  and  settled  himself  down  in  this  thatched  cabin 
in  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  much  as  a  man  who, 
long  riding  the  stretches  of  the  implacable  sea, 
comes  before  the  Winter  storms  into  the  peace  of 
the  harbor. 

It  was  the  month  of  November  when  he  came 
and  the  winds  of  God  were  seeking  out  the  moun- 
tain crevices  and  the  clouds  were  wrapping  the 
passes  of  Knockshunahallion  in  a  seamless  garment 
of  gray.  The  nights  were  falling  quickly  with  im- 
penetrable darkness.  Even  the  sea-gulls  came  in- 
land so  far  to  haven  from  the  Atlantic  storms.  In 
the  daytime,  far  down  In  the  valleys,  they  could 
be  seen  like  fluttering  pieces  of  whitest  paper  blown 
in  the  wake  of  the  plowman's  team. 

There  was  not  one  amongst  the  people  of  those 
parts  but  who  believed  that  Anthony  Sorel  would 
be  gone  from  his  cabin  before  the  Winter  was  past. 

"Is  it  stay  up  there  in  the  wrath  of  the  moun- 
tains," they  said — uan'  he  havin'  the  white  of  death 
already  in  his  face?" 

That  was  what  they  said,  but  they  were  all  wrong. 
An  unearthly  pallor  there  may  have  been  in  his 
cheeks  when  first  he  came  to  Knockshunahallion, 
but  it  was  not  the  whiteness  of  death.  There  was 
an  eager  virility  in  that  slim  body  of  Anthony 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Sorel's  which  none  of  them  had  taken  into  account. 

When  even  a  month  had  gone  by,  the  mountain 
winds  had  burnt  a  faint  color  into  his  face,  bur- 
nished a  brighter  light  in  his  eyes.  Those  who  met 
him  then,  tramping  the  half-trodden  paths  through 
the  heather,  would  scarcely  have  believed  him  to 
be  the  same  man  when  once  the  old  year  had  shot 
its  bolt  and  the  new  year  had  lifted  the  latch. 

Twice  every  week  he  came  down  those  four  miles 
into  the  village  to  buy  food,  bread  and  butter  and 
tea;  sometimes  fish  when  the  men  came  out  in  their 
little  rail  carts  from  the  coast.  In  the  stony  piece 
of  land  that  was  tilled  behind  his  cottage,  he  said, 
he  was  going  to  sow  his  own  potatoes  in  the  Spring. 

It  was  the  postman,  bringing  the  letters — a  lone- 
some walk,  those  three  miles  over  the  moors  from 
Ballyduff — who  first  told  the  people  that  Anthony 
Sorel  was  one  of  those  who  made  songs  and  had 
the  beauties  of  the  world  in  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 
They  never  said  any  more  after  that  about  the  Win- 
ter driving  him  out  of  the  mountains,  because  they 
knew  that  a  man  who  made  songs  and  could  see 
the  beauty  of  the  world,  would  find  such  beauties 
in  those  hills  as  that  he  could  never  wish  to  leave 
them. 

It  was  in  time,  when  the  Spring  was  coming 
round,  when  the  first  buds  of  the  mountain  ashes 
were  faintly  brushed  with  green  and  the  larks  rose 
in  sudden  upward  flights  out  of  the  heather,  such 
time  as  that  it  was  when  people  about  began  to 
have  some  awe  and  great  respect  for  him.  And 

114 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

as  the  months  went  by,  there  were  men  in  the  cot- 
tages who  could  say  his  poems  off  by  heart. 

They  knew  him  all  about;  for  lonely  though  he 
was  up  there  in  that  cabin  of  his  in  the  grip  of 
the  hills,  he  would  come  down  to  the  quiet  farms 
and  to  the  cottages  that  lie  in  the  valleys,  as  the 
toys  of  a  child  lie  in  a  woman's  lap,  and  there  he 
would  sit  with  them,  talking  at  their  firesides. 

All  the  folk-lore  and  the  tales  of  the  faeries'  en- 
chantment, he  heard  in  this  way  from  the  people 
themselves.  Much  of  the  poetry  he  wrote  came 
first  from  their  lips. 

It  was  when  they  waked  Mary  Dorgan,  that 
black  night  in  March,  he  first  read  one  of  his  poems, 
as  they  sat  about  the  room  with  the  coffin  lonely 
on  the  table  and  the  two  candles  burning  with 
shrouds  of  wax  at  her  feet. 

There  was  a  strange  note  of  remoteness  in  his 
voice  as  he  read.  He  allowed  himself  but  little 
variety  of  intonation,  and  yet  the  tone  of  it  was 
sweet,  in  brighter  moments  like  the  running  of  a 
mountain  stream  under  the  moss,  in  solemn  cadences 
as  the  wind  that  threatens  the  hills  before  even  the 
storm  is  near.  He  read  for  the  beauty  of  the 
words  alone  and  would  not  distract  the  ear  with 
that  emotional  appeal  of  the  actor  to  the  senses. 

"Catch  up  the  garments  of  your  night 
Embroidered  with  its  stars, 
And  look  not  neither  to  the  left  nor  right, 
Nor  heed  the  flaming  scimitars. 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Set  out  with  quiet  feet  and  noble  heart; 
Death  has  commanded  you  shall  take  your  part. 

Pluck  you  a  thorned  hazel  twig 

And  shake  the  blossoms  free; 

The  very  hour  itself  is  big 

With  your  soul's  destiny. 

Girdle  your  faith  and  be  as  fifty  men 

That  march  to  battle  in  the  hollow  glen. 

Bring  you  no  tears,  the  dew  will  fall 

To  wet  the  path  you  go; 

And  you  will  hear  the  curlews  call 

Across  the  moors  below. 

The  flame-flies  shall  burn  candles  in  the  grass 

To  light  your  silent  footsteps  as  you  pass." 

There  is  much  honor  for  that  man  in  Ireland 
who  can  make  songs.  So  from  amongst  the  people 
there,  who  lived  in  the  sight  of  Knockshunahallion, 
there  came  great  honor  to  Anthony  Sorel.  Wher- 
ever he  went,  there  was  a  welcome  for  him — a  cup 
of  milk,  a  piece  of  griddle  bread,  a  seat  by  the 
peat  fire.  And  as  time  went  by,  the  reverence  of 
mystery  grew  about  his  name. 

"We've  a  mystery  man  up  there  in  the  moun- 
tains," they  said,  "an'  he  singin'  his  songs  through 
the  watch  of  the  night." 

No  one  knew  how  he  lived.  In  time,  no  one 
asked.  Once  every  month,  he  walked  the  long  road 
across  the  moors  into  Ballyduff,  took  the  train  to 
Lismore  but  was  not  seen  there  by  the  townspeople, 

116 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

except  when  he  arrived  and,  after  three  days,  when 
he  returned.  But  in  Lismore  itself,  he  wasted  no 
moment,  was  come  there  and  was  gone;  was  come 
again  and  then  again  returned  to  Ballyduff,  from 
whence  he  walked  back  over  the  windy  moors  to  his 
cabin  in  the  mountains. 

Some  supposed  him  rich — some  poor.  None  of 
them  knew.  Even  when  Shauneen  Troy  climbed 
up  into  the  mountains,  one  of  those  days  when 
Anthony  Sorel  had  gone  away,  and  peered  in 
through  the  window  of  his  cottage,  he  learnt  but 
little  for  his  daring  to  tell  them  down  in  the  val- 
ley below. 

There  was  the  old  bed  built  into  the  wall,  just 
as  Heggarty  had  died  in  it — "But  weren't  the 
clothes  on  it  white,"  said  Shauneen — "the  way  he 
might  have  stole  the  cloth  off  the  altar;  an'  wasn't 
there  a  robe  over  it  all  of  the  colors  of  the  world, 
the  Pope  might  have  on  his  shoulders  an'  he  sittin' 
on  the  holy  chair  of  Rome  itself?" 

Quite  possibly  this  was  a  patchwork  quilt  cast 
over  the  bed  and  likely  to  bring  great  wonder  to 
strange  eyes  that  had  never  seen  its  like  before. 
Shauneen  made  the  most  of  it,  for  he  had  no  other 
news  to  tell.  The  light  from  that  little  window  had 
but  faint  power  to  illuminate  the  room  within.  He 
could  not  see  how  simple  the  furniture  in  the  place 
might  be,  so  he  colored  everything  with  the  light 
of  the  patchwork  quilt,  speaking  of  great  chairs 
that  kings  might  sit  in  and  twenty  high  candlesticks 
of  polished  brass  when  he  had  seen  but  two. 

117 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

The  only  thing,  a  Russian  crucifix,  set  with 
all  the  barbarous  beauty  of  rough-cut  stones, 
a  thing  he  might  have  talked  about  with 
bated  breath,  he  caught  no  sight  of.  It  stood  in 
a  niche  of  the  wall  by  the  open  chimney  and 
none  besides  Anna  Quartermaine  ever  beheld  it 
there. 

Here  then  and  in  this  fashion,  Anthony  Sorel 
lived  in  the  lonesomeness  of  the  hills  while  a  year 
drew  by.  There  was  no  more  heard  of  his  fear- 
ing the  wrath  of  the  mountains  after  that  and  no 
longer  did  they  talk  of  the  white  of  death  in  his 
face. 

By  many  gentle  things,  he  endeared  himself  to 
those  about  him.  When  old  James  Cotter  was 
thrown  from  his  horse  on  the  Clogheen  road,  it 
was  Anthony  Sorel  himself  who  sat  by  his  bed- 
side while  two  days  were  going  in  and  out  and 
but  for  him,  they  said,  the  old  man  would  have 
got  his  death  at  that  time. 

Yet  notwithstanding  all  his  familiarity  with  the 
people,  there  never  departed  from  him  that  sense 
of  mystery.  Often  when  the  heavy  dews  were  fall- 
ing and  the  long  evenings  of  the  summer  were  drop- 
ping into  night,  a  herdsman  late  coming  from  his 
flocks  in  the  hills,  would  find  Anthony  Sorel  walk- 
ing alone,  long  distances  from  his  cabin  on  Knock- 
shunahallion.  Because  of  the  songs  he  made,  per- 
haps, too  because  of  his  solitary  life  up  there  in 
the  mountains,  they  said  he  talked  with  the  faeries. 
They  whispered  that  he  had  some  spell  against 

118 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

their  charms  by  which  none  of  them  could  take  him 
to  themselves. 

So  he  lived,  close  against  the  face  of  Nature,  till 
one  Spring  had  gone  by  and  yet  another  Spring 
with  its  racing  clouds  and  bursts  of  sunshine  was 
dressing  the  mountains  in  their  purple  robes.  Then 
again  the  air  was  filled  with  the  beating  of  birds' 
wings  and  the  hum  of  bees.  Up  into  the  heavens 
the  larks  soared,  bearing  the  burden  of  their  quiver- 
ing music  into  the  clearer  light.  The  stone-chats  set 
about  their  building  under  the  mountain  stones. 
All  day  long  rose  the  far,  faint  bleating  of  the 
mountain  sheep,  calling  their  errant  young.  The 
Winter  mists  were  swept  away ;  the  valleys  stretched 
out  their  arms  to  the  awakening  sun  once  more  and 
then  it  was  that  Anthony  Sorel  first  met  Anna 
Quartermaine. 


CHAPTER  II 

OFTEN,  with  sly  laughter,  like  children  cun- 
ning in  their  ways,  the  old  folk  teased 
Anthony  Sorel  because  he  lived  alone  in  his 
cabin  up  in  the  mountains. 

"One  fine  day,"  they  said,  "  'tis  yourself  will  be 
takin'  a  shtrapping  young  girrl  up  there  to  the  moun- 
tains, and  ye  makin'  the  songs  to  her  through  the 
long  nights.  Shure,  wouldn't  ye  be  as  mean  as  bog- 
water,  keepin'  that  bed  to  yeerself  with  all  the  young 
men  about  gone  foreign  and  not  one  but  yeerself 
to  marry  a  dacint  girrl  that  'ud  be  lookin'  sideways 
at  any  young  fella  walkin'  the  roads." 

At  the  cross  roads  indeed,  whenever  a  fiddler 
came  those  ways  and  they  would  be  dancing  till 
the  night  was  dark,  there  was  many  a  young  girl 
casting  her  daring  eyes  at  Anthony  Sorel  while 
he  stood  by  the  loose  stone  wall  watching  them. 
Was  it  not  he  who  could  make  the  songs  of  the 
mountains  and  is  there  not  in  the  breast  of  every 
woman  some  voice  that  calls  her  to  the  singers  of 
the  world? 

Indeed  a  woman  may  well  and  fondly  love  the 
man  who  woos  her  with  the  light  of  battle  in  his 
eyes,  who  wins  her  with  the  strength  of  victory  in 
his  arms.  Like  a  mother  she  will  dress  his  wounds 
and  bathe  his  forehead  with  her  tears.  Then  it  is 

120 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

as  to  a  child  she  gives  her  love,  knowing  that,  as 
a  child,  to  just  one  word  of  hers  he  will  obey. 

But  it  is  the  man  of  dreams,  of  unknown  pas- 
sions and  mysterious  moods,  to  whom  for  deeper 
sorrow  or  for  greater  joy  she  gives  the  secret  of 
her  soul.  His  songs  can  waken  her  to  unsuspected 
depths;  his  hidden  thoughts  are  always  riddles  for 
her  watching  eyes.  She  never  knows  the  man  he 
may  not  be  and  never  can  with  all  enchantments 
wholly  enslave  his  mind.  He  is  no  child,  obedient 
to  her  voice,  but  with  some  strange  elusiveness  al- 
ways evades  her  when  she  thinks  to  hold  him  fast. 
And  so  because  it  is  not  easy  victory  she  asks,  this 
is  the  man  whose  eye  arrests  hers  in  a  world  of 
men. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  priest  in  him,  vowed  celibate 
against  the  flesh,  that  urges  on  the  conflict  in  her 
soul.  She  questions  the  youth  and  beauty  in  her 
face  that  cannot  bring  him  pleading  to  her  feet 
and  seeks  to  gain  from  him  the  very  passions  that 
she  scorns  in  coarser  men.  That  strange  aloofness 
in  his  eyes,  spurs  on  her  spirit  to  the  sterner  quest. 
It  is  the  marble  that  her  blood  would  warm, 
towards  which  her  nature  leans  to  kindle  the  fire 
of  life. 

In  all  unconsciousness  no  doubt,  yet  still  in  such 
a  mind,  the  young  girls  glanced  at  Anthony  Sorel 
when  they  saw  him  at  the  cross  ways,  or  met  him 
walking  by  the  road.  The  death  of  Maggie  Dono- 
van in  the  mountain  lake  was  told  at  night  about 
their  firesides  and  many  a  one  of  them  could  see 

121 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

in  Anthony  Sorel,  him  that  came  down  the  heather 
path,  playing  the  sound  of  the  winds  in  the  reed 
between  his  lips.  And  not  one  alone,  but  many 
as  they  lay  awake  in  the  darkness  would  find  imagi- 
nation to  believe  that  such  a  death  could  bring  its 
joys  to  them. 

Yet  he  looked  at  none  but  with  the  eyes  that  see 
beyond,  until  it  grew  to  be  much  spoken  of  that 
he  had  visions  coming  to  his  sight;  that  in  his  cabin 
where  the  winds  meet  in  the  hills,  he  could  call  forth 
the  souls  of  the  departed  dead  and  hear  their  mes- 
sages from  the  other  world. 

Amongst  such  a  people  as  those  in  Ireland,  with 
all  the  riot  of  their  imagination  running  wild,  it 
is  not  difficult  to  understand  how  legend  and  mys- 
terious tales  should  gather  about  such  a  man.  And 
yet  he  moved  amongst  them,  reading  his  songs  at 
their  humble  firesides,  listening  to  their  stories  of 
the  faeries,  and  all  in  that  lonely  simplicity  of  life 
it  seemed  so  strange  a  man  should  choose  for  his 
expression. 

It  was  in  the  Spring  of  his  second  year  on  Knock- 
shunahallion  that  Anna  Quartermaine  came  out  of 
Ballysaggartmore,  walking  up  into  the  mountains. 
She  went  by  the  road  that  passes  through  Feagar- 
rid,  swinging  her  body  to  a  tireless  step  as  she 
walked,  with  Michael,  an  Irish  terrier,  trotting  at 
her  heels. 

An  open  eye  and  clear  she  had  for  the  beauties 
of  the  world  that  stretched  before  her.  There  was 
not  a  lark  that  rose  or  a  curlew  that  called  but 

122 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

what  her  eyes  had  seen,  her  ear  had  heard.  Sport 
there  was  too  for  that  devil  Michael  when  once 
they  came  to  the  moors.  She  carried  a  whip  in 
her  hand,  but  it  was  her  voice  that  brought  him 
in  to  heel. 

When  at  Foildarrig,  she  left  the  road  and  set 
across  the  moors  to  join  the  road  again  past  Boon. 
Then  she  unpinned  the  hat  from  her  head  and  let 
the  winds  of  that  Spring  morning  blow  their  scent 
of  heather  through  her  hair. 

So  she  was  walking,  humming  that  music  of  a 
heart  glad  of  the  day,  when  she  first  met  Anthony 
Sorel. 

He  was  lying  out  on  a  flat  table  of  rock,  his 
elbows  raised  on  it,  supporting  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Below  him  stretched  the  theater  of  the  hills  and 
all  the  valley  with  its  patchwork  fields  of  luminous 
green. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  life  in  the  heather; 
there  was  the  first  sharp  warmth  of  Spring  in  the 
sun.  It  was  a  day  for  lovers  in  that  magic  world 
and  yet,  when  Michael  stood  with  his  front  paws 
raised  upon  the  rock  in  eager  curiosity,  the  man 
looked  at  the  dog  and  not  at  her. 

She  called  him  back  to  her  heels  as  she  passed, 
knowing,  as  women  do,  without  observing,  that  she 
had  pitched  her  voice  upon  its  sweetest  note.  Then 
it  was  he  looked,  as  she  had  meant  he  should,  when 
in  his  eyes  she  saw  that  far  aloofness  which  only 
could  explain  his  presence  in  so  wild  a  world  alone. 

On  his  head  too  there  was  no  covering.  His 
9  123 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

black  hair  was  blown,  disordered  on  his  forehead, 
and  he  lying  there  like  a  man  at  rest  at  the  noon 
of  the  day.  She  looked  for  that  satchel  on  the 
shoulder,  proving  him  one  of  those  strange  pedes- 
trians you  meet  the  world  over,  who  seem  from 
choice  to  face  the  road  alone.  But  there  was  none. 
Realizing  that  he  was  no  man  of  those  parts,  not- 
withstanding the  untidy  condition  of  his  clothes, 
there  was  yet  the  suggestion  to  her  mind  as  she 
glanced  at  him  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  that 
corner  of  the  world. 

These  are  the  instincts,  and  God  knows  how,  that 
lead  a  woman  to  the  truth.  Was  it  the  attitude  in 
which  he  lay,  the  easy  posture  of  his  slim  figure? 
She  would  have  been  the  first  to  swear  she  did  not 
know  how  she  came  by  that  conviction.  A  convic- 
tion it  was;  for  when  she  had  passed  out  of  sight 
round  a  bend  of  the  hills,  she  too  seated  herself 
in  such  position  as  that  if  he  left  his  table  rock 
she  could  observe  which  way  he  went.  This  was 
curiosity;  that  spirit  that  stirs  within  a  woman  long 
time  before  she  knows  she  is  awake. 

Well  into  an  hour  she  sat  there  wondering  would 
he  ever  go  and  then,  when  at  last  her  patience  was 
exhausted,  with  sudden  impulse  she  retraced  her 
steps.  It  was  not  that  she  knew  what  she  was 
going  to  do.  Women  do  not  know,  do  not  set  their 
minds  to  this  or  that,  or  if  they  should,  are  never 
prepared  to  do  it. 

When  once  again  she  turned  the  corner  and 
found  him  still  lying  on  his  table  rock,  there  rose 

124 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

conviction,  now  doubly  sure,  he  was  no  man  of 
those  parts.  But  had  he  shown  the  wish  to  speak, 
then  there  had  been  no  echoing  wish  in  her. 
For  a  woman  knows  that  wish  in  a  man  far  sooner 
than  he  dreams  he  has  the  courage  to  attempt  it. 
Had  that  wish  been  there  in  Anthony  Sorel  at  that 
moment,  she  would  have  passed  him  by  with  a 
light  in  her  eyes,  a  certain  poise  of  the  head,  which 
would  have  given  him  his  answer  before  he  asked 
it. 

But  there  was  none  of  this.  She  felt  he  almost 
resented  her  intrusion.  And  when  he  looked  at  her, 
it  was  as  one  who  saw  her  in  perspective  with  that 
vast  outline  of  the  hills  when  she  would  have  had 
no  other  object  for  his  eyes  but  her. 

So  this  it  was  that  prompted  her,  urged  her  it 
would  seem  almost  to  attitude  of  defiance.  Be- 
fore she  knew  the  cunning  of  her  tongue  or  had 
designed  the  gentle  defenselessness  of  her  pose, 
she  had  stopped  and  spoken  as  she  passed. 

"I  hope  I  don't  disturb  you,"  she  said,  "but  can 
you  tell  me  how  I  can  get  back  to  the  road  to  Bally- 
saggartmore?  I've  been  wandering  about  here  for 
the  last  hour  almost  and  I  can't  find  a  path." 

Not  consciously  did  she  strike  the  note  of  help- 
lessness in  her  voice,  but  there  it  was  and,  hearing 
the  echoes  of  it  in  her  ears,  she  knew  that,  had  she 
been  a  man,  she  could  not  have  resisted  it. 

"The  way  you  came,"  said  he,  "will  take  you 
back."  He  raised  himself  and  pointed  to  the  south. 
"Ballysaggartmore  is  over  there." 

125 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Two  things  there  were  that  fastened  themselves 
upon  her  mind,  the  quality  of  his  voice  and,  as  he 
pointed  the  way  across  the  moors,  the  wonderful 
refinement  of  his  hands.  Both  were  strange  and 
unexpected  in  such  a  man  in  such  a  place.  Curiosity 
became  a  conscious  emotion  in  her  then  and,  not- 
withstanding the  finality  of  his  information,  she 
still  lingered  there,  pursuing  the  swift  impressions 
that  sped  across  her  mind. 

The  first  words  then  that  came  to  her,  she  spoke, 
determining  to  force  him  into  conversation  that  she 
might  hear  his  voice  again;  resolving  in  herself  to 
conquer  his  impenetrable  reserve. 

"And  which  way  is  Foildarrig?"  she  asked. 

"Foildarrig  is  down  there  in  the  valley — the 
group  of  cottages  close  to  that  belt  of  trees." 

Still  he  was  looking  at  her  when  he  spoke,  as  if 
she  were  no  more  than  a  part  of  the  world  his  eyes 
were  compassing.  Where  was  her  beauty  then? 
she  asked  herself. 

When  the  issue  between  human  beings  is  in  the 
balance,  no  one  knows  swifter  than  a  woman  when 
her  looks  are  put  upon  the  scales.  He  had  not  so 
much  as  taken  them  to  account;  yet  there  she  stood 
below  him,  with  the  wind  blowing  through  the  loose 
tresses  of  her  hair,  tinting  her  cheeks  with  that 
glow  no  art  can  imitate,  knowing  that  if  ever  she 
had  beauty  it  was  with  her  then.  This  was  driving 
her  and  almost  in  self-defense,  as  though  each  un- 
comprehending glance  of  his  was  an  attack. 

"Do  you  know  this  part  of  the  world  well?"  she 
126 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

asked,  the  very  difficulty   encouraging  her  to  her 
purpose. 

"I  live  here,"  said  he. 

"Here?"  She  looked  about  her,  across  the  long 
slopes  of  the  hills,  the  wide  stretches  of  the  heather, 
the  stray  thorn  trees  bent  and  twisted  by  the  pre- 
vailing winds.  "Here?"  she  repeated.  "Where?" 

By  a  motion  of  his  hand,  he  lifted  her  eyes  to 
the  mountains  above  them. 

"On  a  sort  of  plateau  up  there,"  said  he, 
"there's  a  small  cottage.  It's  mine." 

"And  you  live  there?" 

"I  do." 

"All  the  year  round?" 

"All  the  year  round." 

"Not  by  yourself?" 

"Yes— by  myself." 

"Whatever  for?" 

"One  must  live  somewhere." 

"Yes — but  surely  you  choose  company,  don't  you?" 

"I  have  company." 

"Whose?" 

There  she  stopped.  An  expression  she  could  not 
read  as  yet  had  swept  into  the  sensitive  lines  of  his 
face.  It  might  well  have  been  displeasure  at  her 
questioning.  She  hastened  to  make  amends. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  she  said  quickly.  "I'm  very 
rude — aren't  I?" 

"Why  should  you  say  it's  rude  to  be  curious?" 
he  replied.  "Everyone  is  curious.  We  cease  to  live 
when  we  cease  to  have  curiosity." 

127 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

She  looked  up  to  his  table  of  rock  and  she  smiled. 

"But  you're  not  curious." 

"Oh— yes,  I  am,"  said  he— "thank  God,  full  of 
curiosity." 

"Not  about  me." 

She  remembered  afterwards,  indeed  she  was  con- 
scious of  it  then,  how  he  looked  down  at  her  as 
though  aware  of  her  personality  for  the  first  time. 

"No,"  he  replied  slowly.  "Isn't  it  a  waste  of  time 
to  be  curious  about  people?" 

This  was  a  strange  point  of  view.  That  none 
of  them  ever  fulfilled  her  expectations  had  not  de- 
terred her  from  being  curious  about  people  all 
her  life.  Yet  strange  as  it  was,  it  did  not  sound 
unexpected  from  him.  Her  mind  did  not  even  take 
offense  at  it,  when  from  some  other  man  she  would 
intentionally  have  sought  the  personal  implication. 

"I  don't  find  it  a  waste  of  time,"  was  all  she  said. 

There  followed  a  silence  and  in  that  silence  had 
his  eyes  been  upon  her,  she  would  have  let  it  con- 
tinue. But  when  she  looked  up  again,  he  was  gazing 
away  to  the  high  peak  of  Knockshunahallion  where 
a  white  cloud,  dropped  down  from  the  blue  heav- 
ens, was  brushing  the  crest  with  a  fringe  of  mist. 

"Why  do  you  think  it  is?"  she  continued. 

It  was  his  reluctance  that  was  stimulating  to  her 
and  it  was  not  the  reluctance  of  one  who  will  not  be 
engaged,  but  of  a  mind  engrossed  with  things  beyond 
her  comprehension.  She  felt  she  was  against  some 
barrier  that  human  nature  had  never  confronted  her 
with  before,  which. all  the  desire  in  her  was  leaping 

128 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

up  to  overcome.  It  was  only  by  keeping  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face,  she  felt  she  could  bring  him  to 
the  consciousness  of  her  question,  and  when  at  last 
he  did  answer,  it  was  slowly  made,  as  though  he 
had  left  another  world  to  speak  to  her. 

"Because  people  come  and  go,"  he  said.  "That's 
why  it  seems  to  me  a  waste  of  time  to  be  curious 
about  them.  So  much  as  they  touch  your  own  life 
and  become  for  a  time  a  part  of  it,  they  have  all  the 
meaning  that  people  can  have  in  the  world  and 
curiosity  won't  help  you  to  find  out  what  that  mean- 
ing is.  You'll  discover  it,  a  thing  growing  in  and 
completing  the  growth  of  your  own — soul."  He 
spoke  that  word  with  hesitation,  as  though  she  might 
misunderstand  his  use  of  it.  "They  set  you  back 
or  help  you  onwards.  The  people  you  imagine  and 
make  in  your  own  mind  have  more  power  of  uplift- 
ing than  any  you  meet  in  the  flesh." 

"Is  that  what  you're  doing,  up  there  on  your 
perch  of  rock — dreaming  about  people  you've  never 
met?" 

For  the  first  time  he  smiled  and  she  saw  the  hidden 
charm  in  him. 

"I  was  not  aware  that  I  was  doing  anything,"  said 
he.  "I've  been  here  for  an  hour  before  you  came." 

"Doing  what?" 

"Nothing.  Watching  those  lapwings  down  in  the 
valley — listening  to  that  lark.  Every  quarter  of  an 
hour,  he  makes  a  new  flight  up  into  the  heavens.  I 
don't  know  what  I've  been  doing.  Look  at  those 
clouds  gathering  over  the  Galtee  mountains.  It's 

129 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

something  to  watch  them,  isn't  it?  In  an  hour's  time 
their  shadows  will  be  chasing  across  the  moors." 

She  looked  at  him  in  growing  interest,  uncertain 
how  to  understand  the  things  he  said.  For  though  in 
any  other  place,  there  might  have  seemed  extrava- 
gance in  the  sound  of  his  speech,  yet  there  and  in  the 
simple  manner  in  which  he  spoke,  everything  he  said 
seemed  to  have  a  truer  meaning. 

"You're  a  queer  person  to  meet — like  this,"  she 
said  and  candidly,  for  the  first  time  unconsciously 
losing  the  woman  in  her  and  speaking  just  as  one 
human  being  to  another — as  travelers  speak,  wend- 
ing their  ways  along  the  same  road.  Indeed,  either 
because  of  him,  or  despite  herself,  she  had  taken 
off  that  garment  of  femininity  in  which  she  had  been 
wrapped.  The  knowledge  that  he  was  a  man  and 
she  was  a  woman  and  that  there  they  were  alone 
in  the  wild  passes  of  those  hills  was  swiftly  dropping 
from  her.  It  was  the  aloofness  of  his  mind  she 
knew  had  brought  about  the  change.  So  she  could 
come  to  candor  and,  undisguised,  speak  the  passage 
of  her  thoughts. 

"You'd  be  the  same  as  I  am,"  said  he,  "if  you 
lived  up  here  in  the  sounds  and  silences  of  the  moun- 
tains. I'm  not  queer — only  to  you.  I'm  not  queer 
to  myself  or  to  all  those  people  who  live  in  the  farms 
and  the  cottages  you  see  dotted  about  down  there 
in  the  valley.  At  least — I  don't  think  I  am.  I  know 
they  believe  that  I  talk  with  the  faeries  and  do  all 
sorts  of  strange  things  in  my  little  cabin  up  there — 
but  after  all  that's  not  so  queer  a  thing  to  them. 

130 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

They  see  faeries.  There's  scarcely  one  of  the  old 
people  about  here  who  hasn't  seen  some  evidence  of 
them  one  way  or  another.  If  you  know  the  country 
hereabouts  at  all,  you  know  that  about  them.  Oh — 

I'm  not  queer "     He  raised  himself  on  the  slab 

of  rock  and  jumped  down  into  the  heather  by  her 
side.  "You  think  about  it — wherever  you're  going 
to  be  to-night  and  if  you're  going  to  be  alone — you 
think  about  it.  I'm  not  queer." 

He  had  not  hat  to  raise  that  he  might  bid  her  fare- 
well, but  a  faint  smile  came  across  his  eyes  as  he 
turned  away.  So  there  she  stood  watching  him 
as  he  climbed  up  the  side  of  the  mountain,  then  he 
turned  upon  the  slope  of  the  hill  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  may  not  have  entered  Anthony  Sorel's  mind 
when  he  bid  Anna  Quartermaine  think  about 
him  that  night,  that  she  would  so  implicitly 
have  obeyed.  Despite  herself,  the  thoughts  were 
forced  upon  her  and  all  the  way  back  across  the 
moors  her  mind  ran  upon  little  else. 

Who  was  he  ?  Why  did  he  live  alone  there  in  the 
stillness  and  in  the  wrath  of  those  mountains?  Was 
there  madness  in  him — had  he  lost  the  gift  of  his 
wits?  So  common  a  thing  is  that  solitary  madness 
in  Ireland — sane  enough  to  evade  the  meaning  of 
the  Asylums  Act — that  it  seemed  a  supposition  rea- 
sonable enough  when  first  her  mind  encountered  it. 
Yet  even  that  did  not  hold  weight  with  her  for  long. 
He  did  not  look  as  those  witless  creatures  look. 
However  distant  it  may  have  been,  there  was  direc- 
tion in  his  eyes.  The  lapwings  hovering  in  the  valley 
far  below,  the  clouds  in  their  cumulus  banks  over 
the  Galtee  mountains,  as  he  had  said,  it  was  doing 
something  to  watch  them.  Perhaps  the  thing  she 
would  have  done  herself,  though  with  less  meaning 
than  he  seemed  to  derive  from  so  indefinite  an 
occupation. 

No,  that  was  not  madness,  she  thought.  Even 
when  he  spoke  of  the  faeries,  saying,  as  though  it 
were  the  most  ordinary  fact  in  the  world,  that  the 

132 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

old  people  had  evidence  of  them,  it  was  not  as  one 
who  believes  in  the  witlessness  of  his  imagination. 
She  could  bring  no  conviction  to  her  mind  that  his 
wits  were  gone.  So  far  and  no  farther  her  thoughts 
had  brought  her  when  at  evening  she  came  back  to 
the  big  house  in  Ballysaggartmore. 

Then,  as  her  custom  often  was,  when  her  mind 
was  restless  and  she  felt  the  solitude  of  the  place 
about  her,  she  sent  for  Father  Nolan  to  take  his 
evening  meal  with  her. 

These  invitations  came  always  full  of  welcome  to 
the  parish  priest.  There  were  not  many  diversions 
in  that  neighborhood  of  Ballysaggartmore,  and  in 
no  parish  that  he  had  ever  known,  he  often  said  it, 
was  there  a  woman  of  such  attraction  and  intelli- 
gence as  Anna  Quartermaine. 

Though  every  week  she  made  her  confession  to 
him  in  the  cramped  confessional  of  their  little  chapel, 
it  was  never,  he  felt,  the  woman  who  came  to  him, 
only  that  ordered  creature  with  the  human  sins  of 
omission  and  commission,  obedient  in  mind  to  the 
regulations  of  her  church,  but  ever  with  the  spirit 
of  insurrection  holding  about  her  the  garb  of  mys- 
tery7 that  she  wore. 

The  more  she  told  him  in  confession,  the  less  he 
knew  of  her  when  he  met  her  in  the  world,  where- 
fore, having  no  shame  of  his  manhood  as  a  priest, 
these  little  invitations  to  the  big  house — always  sud- 
den and  unexpected — were  never  refused  by  him. 
She  gave  him  good  wine.  She  could  talk  and  with 
such  experience  of  the  world  as  in  no  woman  he  had 

133 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

ever  met.  Whenever  she  returned  from  her  travels 
abroad,  she  entertained  him  with  stories  from  every 
country  she  had  visited.  Full  of  that  quaint  ob- 
servation, intelligent  women  have,  of  the  unexpected 
details  of  life,  she  could  be  witty,  instructive,  and  of 
absorbing  interest. 

Those  little  things  which  by  right  she  should  have 
told  him  in  the  confessional,  she  let  fall  in  the  casual 
course  of  their  conversation.  His  eyes  were  keen 
enough  to  see  through  that.  In  the  confessional 
there  might  have  been  forced  upon  her  the  little 
necessities  of  explanation;  but  at  the  dinner  table, 
good  manners  forbade  his  questioning  whereby  the 
woman  in  her  escaped  detection.  With  all  the  wit 
of  a  clever  tongue,  with  expressions  too  that  swiftly 
came,  inviting  confidence,  and  as  swiftly  went  when 
she  deemed  she  had  said  enough,  she  made  her  ad- 
vance, she  effected  her  retreat.  The  next  instant 
the  woman  of  whom  she  had  accorded  him  that 
transitory  glimpse,  was  gone. 

So  it  was  when  Father  Nolan  received  her  invita- 
tion on  that  still  Spring  evening,  he  went  to  the  door 
of  his  room  and  called  at  once  to  his  housekeeper. 
"Let  ye  eat  the  chop,"  said  he,  "and  don't  be  cook- 
in'  but  half  the  potatoes,  I'm  goin'  to  have  me  dinner 
at  the  big  house." 

There  was  always  a  warm  sense  of  satisfaction 
within  him  when  he  made  that  announcement.  He 
knew  with  what  respect  it  was  received  in  the 
kitchen;  how  it  would  be  well  across  the  village 
before  the  night  had  fallen.  To  add  to  the  warmth 

134 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  it,  he  took  her  note  from  its  envelope  and  read 
it  through  once  again. 

There  is  a  place  laid  for  you  this  evening  and  an  empty 
chair  for  you  to  fill. 

That  was  all.  This  second  time  as  he  read  it,  he 
smiled.  The  brevity,  the  precision,  the  confident 
expectation,  they  were  all  so  characteristic  of  her. 
He  knew  so  well  what  she  would  say  were  he  to 
refuse,  the  look  of  astonishment  that  would  come 
into  her  face,  the  countless  ways  she  would  punish 
him  for  that  declining,  with  the  ready  assumption  to 
her  mind  that  he  had  something  better  to  do.  But 
he  never  refused  and  short  of  the  extreme  exigencies 
of  his  calling,  she  never  expected  that  he  would. 

Having  thrust  the  letter  back  again  into  his  pocket, 
therefore,  he  reached  down  his  old  silk  hat  from  its 
peg  in  the  hall,  looked  at  his  hands  and  shook  his 
head  when  on  any  other  occasion  he  would  have 
pronounced  them  "clean  enough,"  and,  opening 
the  door,  he  set  out  down  the  street  to  the  big  house, 
hiding  in  its  belt  of  trees  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
village. 

"I'll  wash  me  hands  and  I  gettin'  there,"  said  he. 

On  those  occasions,  when  there  was  no  other  com- 
pany, he  was  shown  into  a  little  boudoir  next  to  the 
dining-room  and,  much  as  he  liked  company,  being 
a  native  of  his  land,  he  preferred  these  quiet  even- 
ings alone  with  her  who  was  company  enough  for 
any  man. 

135 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

The  servant  closed  the  door  quietly  behind  him 
as  he  crossed  to  the  fireplace  and  sat  down,  pre- 
paring for  those  long  moments  of  anticipation  which 
he  knew  her  unvaried  habit  it  was  to  keep  him 
waiting. 

Seven-thirty  were  the  figures  she  had  written  at 
the  foot  of  her  sheet  of  notepaper.  According  to  a 
little  enameled  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  it  was 
five-and-twenty  to  eight.  He  folded  his  hands  on 
his  lap  and  stared  into  the  fire. 

He  was  not  a  young  man;  he  was  not  an  old. 
That  age  he  was,  so  she  often  told  him,  when  a  man 
can  keep  his  illusions  about  Romance  and  yet  be 
sensible  with  women.  That  was  her  way  of  putting 
it  and  invariably  she  would  make  it  the  more  per- 
sonal by  assuring  him  how  impersonal  it  was.  In- 
deed she  was  the  only  woman  he  knew,  who  con- 
stantly reminded  him  that  he  was  vowed  to  Holy 
Orders  and  that  by  ostensibly  helping  him  to  for- 
get it. 

He  had  never  told  her  his  age.  He  had  never 
told  it  to  anyone.  He  was  fifty-three;  indeed  just 
that  age  when  a  man  volunteers  no  unnecessary  in- 
formation about  it.  He  was  handsome  to  look  at; 
handsome  in  that  ascetic  way  which  is  one  of  the 
two  types  you  find  amongst  the  priests  of  Ireland. 
There  are  no  intermediary  types.  The  Church 
breeds  but  two  classes  of  men  only.  He  was  of  the 
class  that  finds  promotion  and,  had  he  been  on  good 
terms  with  his  bishop,  would  never  have  remained 
in  Ballysaggartmore. 

136 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

There  was  a  kindly  humor  in  his  eyes  when  his 
mind  was  engaged  in  conversation.  In  repose  they 
had  that  far  inward  look  which  belongs  to  the 
visionary  when  it  does  not  belong  to  the  Church. 
His  cheek  bones  were  high,  his  thin  lips  sometimes 
twisting  humorously,  sometimes  drooping  to  that 
sudden  sadness  which  is  so  innate  in  the  race.  He 
was  tall  and  slight,  a  slimness  of  figure  that  went 
far  to  conceal  his  age.  Indeed  he  was  a  man  of 
pleasing  appearance.  It  is  doubtful  if  Anna  Quar- 
termaine  would  have  had  him  so  often  to  her  table 
unless.  For  this  certainly  was  characteristic  of 
her.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman  who  neither 
needed,  nor  could  endure  the  contrast  of  ugliness 
about  her.  All  the  servants  at  the  big  house  were 
chosen  as  much  for  their  looks  as  their  ability. 

"There's  no  need  for  people  to  be  ugly,"  she 
said,  "and  when  they  are,  there's  still  less  need  to 
look  at  them.  That's  why  you  come  here  to  dine 
with  me  so  often,"  she  said  to  Father  Nolan.  "I 
couldn't  bear  it  if  you  were  ugly.  But  you've  got 
such  a  nice  ascetic  old  face  that  I  like  looking  at  it." 

So  she  reminded  him  of  his  Holy  Orders  in  the 
same  breath  that  she  persuaded  him  to  forget  them. 
No  man  objects  to  that. 

The  enameled  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  was  just 
drawing  its  breath  to  strike  the  hour  of  eight  when 
the  door  opened,  wakening  him  from  the  reverie  into 
which  he  had  fallen. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  turned  round.  She  stood 
in  the  doorway  in  a  light  dinner  gown,  perfectly 

137 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

draped  about  her.     First  she  smiled.    This  was  her 

apology.     Then  she  said, 

"I'm  not  late — am  I?    Say  I'm  not  late." 

He  said  she  was  not,  knowing  that  this  was  the 

form  of  apology  expected  from  him  to  set  her  mind 

at  rest. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THEY  sat  down  for  dinner  to  the  table  where 
four  shaded  candles  were  burning  in  tall 
Queen  Anne  silver  candlesticks.  This  was 
the  only  light  in  the  room;  strange  illumination  in 
those  days  when  a  brilliantly  lighted  table  was  con- 
sidered beautiful. 

They  had  it  in  Ballysaggartmore  that  Anna  Quar- 
termaine  took  all  her  meals  in  the  dark  and  sat  in 
the  dark  too  by  herself  at  nights  in  the  big  room 
that  looked  over  the  mountains. 

"An'  wouldn't  that  be  queer,"  they  said,  "for 
one  as  handsome  as  herself?"  By  which  it  must 
be  supposed  they  meant  she  was  hiding  her  beauty. 

But  Anna  Quartermaine  knew  better  than  to  hide 
her  beauty;  she  knew  better  than  to  be  too  generous 
with  it.  Whatever  he  may  have  thought  of  those 
shaded  lights  as  means  of  illumination,  Father  No- 
lan always  came  away  from  the  big  house  with  the 
impression  of  a  man  who  has  been  in  the  presence 
of  beauty  rather  than  of  one  who  has  had  it  thrust 
upon  his  sight. 

On  that  Spring  evening,  he  sat  down  to  table, 
conscious  that  there  was  some  purpose  in  his  being 
asked  there  and  equally  content  to  wait  until  she 
saw  fit  to  tell  him  what  it  was.  Quite  possibly  he 
may  have  imagined  its  substance;  some  little  thing, 
10  139 


as  so  frequently  happened,  of  which  she  had  no 
desire  to  unburden  herself  in  the  confessional,  some 
twinge  of  the  conscience  which  could  not  be  con- 
strued into  a  measure  requiring  absolution ;  some  in- 
tention upon  which  her  mind  was  already  set,  yet  for 
which  she  needed  the  warrant  of  his  approval. 

These  were  the  subtle  and  feminine  motions  of 
her  mind  which  required  far  more  delicate  treat- 
ment than  the  open  admission  of  venial  sins  in  the 
confessional.  He  was  used  to  such  dealings  with 
her.  So  far  as  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  under- 
stand, he  knew  the  directions  of  her  mind. 

"My  spiritual  adviser — "  so  she  sometimes  ad- 
dressed him,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest;  and  in 
such  capacity  it  was  often  when  her  determination 
was  set  upon  a  certain  course  that  she  called  him  to 
her,  conjuring  cunningly  from  his  lips  his  approval 
of  the  thing  she  meant  to  do.  So  many  times  had 
her  tricks  deceived  him,  that  he  had  become  wary 
of  the  fascination  of  her  craft.  This  evening  he  set 
to  his  meal  in  silence,  as  though  to  share  her  food 
was  the  only  purpose  of  her  invitation. 

"Have  you  got  nothing  to  say?"  she  said  at  last. 

He  looked  up  humorously  from  his  plate. 

"Plenty,"  said  he — "but  'tis  nothin'  so  good  as  ye 
might  be  saying  yeerself." 

"How  do  you  know  I've  got  anything  to  say?" 

"Didn't  ye  ask  me  here  to  take  the  dinner  with 
ye?" 

She  laughed  and  the  shaded  light  of  those  four 
candles  all  added  to  the  mystery  of  her  laughter. 

140 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"You're  a  dear  thing,"  said  she.  "You  know  me 
very  well — don't  you?" 

This  was  one  of  her  guiles,  a  cloak  thrown  across 
his  eyes,  all  embroidered  with  the  charm  of  that 
term  of  endearment.  He  knew  what  it  meant.  It 
meant  that  he  knew  her  so  well  that  his  eyes  were 
blinded  to  what  she  really  was,  to  what  she  had  fully 
made  up  her  mind  to  be. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  smiling.  "What  is  it  ye've  got 
to  say?" 

And  when,  in  the  simplest  voice  in  the  world, 
she  assured  him  that  quite  honestly  there  was  noth- 
ing, what  else  was  there  to  do  but  for  him  to  believe 
her?  It  was  then,  but  not  till  then  that  she  pro- 
ceeded with  all  her  subtleties  to  tell  him  what  it  was ; 
not  that  he  might  know,  when  all  the  telling  had 
been  made,  but  that  she  could  obtain  from  him 
whatever  expression  of  opinion  she  might  need. 
This  much,  however,  must  be  said  for  him;  he  had 
his  shrewd  suspicion  he  was  being  so  dealt  with — 
the  vague  impression,  but  no  more. 

Yet  notwithstanding  that  shrewd  suspicion,  her 
first  question  came  upon  him  utterly  unawares.  Rest- 
ing her  cheek  in  her  hand  and,  beneath  the  glow  of 
those  shaded  candles,  setting  her  eyes  to  his,  she 
said, 

"Do  you  believe  in  the  faeries?" 

He  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  met  her  eyes 
with  his  astonishment. 

"Now,  in  the  name  of  the  Almighty  God,"  said 
he,  "why  are  ye  asking  me  a  thing  like  that?" 

141 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"The  people  about  here  believe  in  them,"  said 
she — "the  old  people  do." 

"They  do  indeed." 

"Well — don't  you  tell  them  how  foolish  it  is?" 

"Shure,  why  would  I?" 

He  was  beginning  to  lose  all  consciousness  of  that 
shrewd  suspicion.  She  had  this  quality.  She  could 
always  distract  his  mind  with  the  interest  of  what 
she  said. 

"Why  would  I?"  he  repeated.  "Shure,  what 
harm  are  they  doing  believing  in  the  faeries?  Didn't 
old  Mary  Quinn  the  other  day  go  down  on  her  two 
knees  bended  and  implore  me  the  way  I'd  sprinkle 
the  room  of  her  cottage  with  Holy  Water  an'  she 
kept  wakin'  at  nights  by  the  noises  they  made,  sing- 
ing and  dancing  till  her  ears  were  deafened  with  it?" 

"What  were  the  noises?    Did  you  find  out?" 

"I  did  not.  'Twas  in  her  ears  she  heard  them, 
not  in  mine." 

"Well — did  you  sprinkle  the  Holy  Water?" 

"I  did  not,  of  course." 

"Why  not?" 

"Shure  what  would  herself  be  saying  about  us  if 
I  brought  her  the  Holy  Water  and  never  a  sound  of 
their  dancing  went  out  of  her  head  from  that  day 
to  this?" 

"You  don't  believe  there  was  anything  in  it  then?" 

"Shure,  I  wouldn't  say  that.  I've  no  doubt  there 
was  something  the  pore  woman  heard  in  her  ears. 
Didn't  I  send  the  doctor  to  have  a  look  at  her?" 

"What  did  he  say?" 

142 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"He  said  'twas  not  in  her  ears  at  all — but  her 
mind  had  it,  the  way  she  could  describe  the  patter- 
ing of  their  feet  and  even  repeat  some  of  the  songs 
they  sang — and  she  no  poet,  mind  ye,  to  be  invent- 
ing the  things  she  said.  '  'Tis  no  matter  for  the 
priest,'  said  I — 'an'  'tis  no  matter  for  the  doctor,' 
says  he,  for  ye  couldn't  put  a  woman  like  that  into 
an  asylum  an'  she  just  hearing  the  noise  of  music  ye 
couldn't  hear  yeerself." 

Something  in  the  reserve  of  his  speech  committed 
him  to  a  belief  he  would  not  openly  subscribe  to. 
She  sat  there  at  the  end  of  the  table,  watching  him 
as  he  continued  with  his  meal,  all  the  lighter  spirit 
of  her  manner  gone,  and  in  its  place  a  gentle  serious- 
ness that  softened  to  a  shadow  in  her  eyes. 

"You  don't  think  she  was  mad?"  she  asked  pres- 
ently. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  knowing  in  the  cadence  of 
her  voice,  in  the  gentled  expression  of  her  face,  that 
all  subtlety  had  gone  from  her;  that  now  she  was 
truly  herself,  disrobed  of  all  the  secreting  garments 
of  her  sex.  Why  this  subject  had  brought  her  such 
a  mood  was  beyond  his  understanding.  He  had  seen 
it  in  her  before.  Once,  when  she  had  believed  she 
was  in  love,  she  had  given  him  this  glimpse  of  her 
real  self,  a  prey  to  emotion,  her  spirit  striving  for 
those  upward  and  exalted  flights  of  the  mind  where 
no  reason  or  quality  of  the  intelligence  could  fol- 
low. 

But  in  all  the  course  of  his  knowledge  of  her,  she 
had  never  spoken  of  the  faeries  before.  When  he 

143 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

brought  his  eyes  back  to  the  plate  before  him,  he 
still  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  this  sudden  inclina- 
tion of  her  thoughts. 

"Do  you  think  she  was  mad?"  she  repeated,  when 
her  question  remained  still  unanswered. 

"I  do  not,"  said  he — "no  more  than  there  are 
times  when  I'm  mad  and  ye're  mad.  Shure,  don't 
they  say  about  here  that  'tis  queer  ye  are  yeerself 
an'  ye  never  marrying  any  man  at  all." 

"Do  they  say  that?" 

She  smiled,  but  with  an  odd  humor,  not  of  laugh- 
ter, in  her  face. 

"They  do  indeed,"  said  he. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  queer?" 

He  looked  up  with  a  laugh  in  his  eyes. 

"Well  now — what  do  ye  want  me  to  say  to  that?" 
he  asked. 

"Just  what  you  think." 

"Well — then,  I  suppose  I  do." 

"Why?" 

He  knew  just  how  carefully  this  question  must  be 
answered  and  debated  some  moments  before  he 
spoke.  But  she  was  eager  to  know.  She  could  not 
wait  long  to  be  told. 

"Why?"  she  said  again — and  again,  "Why?" 

"Well — aren't  there  many  men  have  asked  ye?" 
said  he. 

"Yes— many." 

Indeed  there  were  many  in  his  knowledge  alone. 
She  never  had  any  wish  to  hide  them  from  him. 
"There  was  a  man — he  was  in  love  with  me  by  the 

144 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

way — "  so  she  ushered  in  many  a  story  for  his 
hearing.  Knowing  her  friendship  for  him  there 
were  not  a  few  who  had  admitted  as  much  to  him 
themselves,  begging  for  his  intercession,  seeking  his 
counsel.  To  one  and  all  of  them,  he  had  said  the 
same  thing. 

"Anna  Quartermaine,"  said  he,  "will  do  what 
she  wants  to,  when  she  knows  what  it  is." 

"Don't  ye  think,  then,  that  ye're  queer  yeerself>n 
said  he,  "an'  ye  refusing  them  all?" 

She  leant  back  in  her  chair,  all  interest  of  the 
meal  lost  in  this  of  more  absorbing  moment.  It  was 
a  charming  egotism.  There  was  no  discussion  she 
liked  so  well  as  an  argument  about  herself,  setting 
forth  her  virtues  as  best  became  them,  admitting  her 
faults  with  a  fascinating  reluctance;  making  volun- 
tary confessions  of  the  creature  she  was,  and  always 
with  the  same  nai've  conclusion,  "Don't  you  know 
that  about  me?" 

The  parish  priest  knew  this  mood  in  her  well  and 
never  made  endeavor  to  discourage  it.  Some  new 
feature  of  herself  he  learnt  on  every  occasion  when 
it  was  displayed;  yet  never  did  she  admit  so  much 
as  gave  him  power  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  her 
sex.  With  it  all,  she  still  remained  the  woman  no 
man  can  see  or  understand. 

Such  a  mood  she  was  entering  upon  now.  With 
every  interest  awake  in  him,  he  anticipated  it.  There 
were  ways  of  encouraging  her,  and  he  knew  them 
well.  Finding  her  eyes  lost  in  that  contemplation 
which  sees  no  barrier  to  the  limitations  of  one's  sur- 

145 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

roundings,  he  urged  her  with  yet  another  question. 
But  there  was  no  emphasis  in  his  voice.  He  spoke 
quite  gently  as  one  who  wakes  a  sleeper  from  his 
dreams. 

"I  suppose  'tis  the  way  ye've  never  found  a  man 
to  yeer  liking?" 

She  glanced  up  at  that,  when  he  could  see  how  he 
had  struck  a  note  which  vibrated. 

"There  are  so  many  men,"  she  said — "and  so 
many  me's.  That's  what's  the  matter.  The  tinker, 
the  tailor,  the  soldier,  the  sailor  and  so  on  and  so 
on — the  beggarman  and  thief — do  you  understand?" 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"There's  never  been  a  chemist  in  love  with  me 
though." 

"Why  a  chemist?" 

"Well — "  she  was  half  teasing,  but  half  she  meant 
the  spirit  of  what  she  said — "You  never  know. 
Think  if  the  whole  world  became  too  difficult,  what 
a  wonderful  potion  a  chemist  could  give  you — if  he 
were  in  love." 

Father  Nolan  smiled  at  her,  not  altogether  in 
laughter.  Despite  himself  he  had  caught  the  note 
of  meaning  in  her  voice. 

"Do  ye  think  he  would  give  it  ye,"  said  he,  "if 
the  young  man  were  in  love?" 

"But  of  course,"  she  said,  "that  'ud  be  the  only 
way  he  could  prove  it.  What  would  be  the  good  of 
his  being  a  chemist,  if  he  wouldn't  do  that?" 

"Rather  a  penalty  for  the  pore  man,"  said  he. 

"But  isn't  there  always  a  penalty?"  she  replied 
146 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

and  little  knew  the  truth  she  said.  "If  I  love  a  sol- 
dier, he  must  be  a  soldier  and  the  greatest  glory  a 
soldier  can  have  is  to  die  fighting.  That's  why  I 
don't  want  to  marry  a  soldier.  It's  no  good  marry- 
ing a  man  if  you're  going  to  lose  him.  I  want  to  keep 
the  thing  I  love — don't  you  know  that  about  me?" 

He  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  broke  into 
laughter.  There  was  the  charm  of  something  irre- 
sistible in  her  folly,  perhaps  because  there  was  more 
than  mere  folly  to  it  all.  She  was  not  only  talking 
of  herself  now.  She  was  voicing  one  of  the  hidden 
secrets  of  her  sex. 

"Supposing  ye  didn't  lose  him?"  said  he.  "It  isn't 
all  soldiers  die  that  way.  Indeed  'tis  a  good  many 
would  be  surprised  to  hear  they  had  a  chance  of 
it.  Wasn't  there  an  officer  I  knew  in  the  North 
Cork  Militia  and  didn't  he  get  his  death  with  a  cold, 
waiting  for  a  lady  at  the  corner  of  Patrick's  Bridge 
and  she  never  turning  up  for  him  till  the  rain  had 
drenched  the  coat  on  him  and  Mangan's  clock 
pointed  to  an  hour  after  the  time  she  said  she'd  be 
there?  Shure,  what's  wrong  with  a  soldier  beyond 
the  chances  of  his  getting  shot,  if  he'll  come  by  his 
death  like  that  for  a  woman?  What  was  the  matter 
with  Major  Allen,  except  that  he  was  an  English- 
man, mind  ye?  Was  there  e'er  a  man  ye'd  have 
more  right  to  call  a  man,  than  that  fella?  Didn't 
he  stand  six  foot  two  in  his  stocking  vamps  and 
wasn't  he  as  handsome  as  an  Apollo  in  a  hateful  red 
tunic?  Didn't  he  almost  lose  his  wits  about  ye  and 
shure  what  was  the  matter  with  him?" 

H7 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  had  dropped  his  voice  to  a  gentler  note,  know- 
ing that  he  spoke  of  one  of  those  tender  incidents 
in  her  life  for  which  memory  still  chastised  her  with 
sudden  lashes  of  regret. 

"What was  the  matter  with  him?"  she  repeated — 
"just  that  he  wasn't  a  tinker  or  a  tailor  or  a  beggar- 
man  or  a  thief — that's  all.  He  was  a  soldier — just 
a  soldier.  And  he  was  fond  of  me — wasn't  he? 
You  know  that.  But  when  I  first  met  him,  I  thought 
I  loved  soldiers — then  after  a  time  I  got  so  tired 
of  them.  Life  would  have  become  a  regiment  of 
days  if  I'd  married  him.  We  should  have  trooped 
our  colors  till  they  were  in  rags.  Why  must  a  man 
be  anything?  Why  can't  he  be  everything?  Spiritual 
adviser — I  shall  never  marry.  There  are  too  many 
men  in  the  world  and  they're  all  something  different. 
And  if  I  married  one,  I  should  be  bound  to  see 
something  in  the  other  that  I  wanted.  Come  along 
— let's  go  into  the  other  room.  That's  why  I'm 
queer.  Tell  them  that  if  they  ever  ask  you.  I  won- 
der would  they  ever  understand  it." 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  led  the  way  into  the 
little  room  beyond.  There,  she  crossed  to  the  win- 
dow and  stood  looking  out  through  the  darkness  to 
where  the  mountains  rose  like  purple  rainclouds 
against  the  evening  pallor  of  the  sky. 

"I  wonder  what  it's  like,"  she  said.  "I  wonder 
what  it's  like  at  night  to  be  up  there  alone  in  the 


mountains." 


CHAPTER  V 

THERE  she  stood  for  some  minutes,  holding 
the  curtain  back  against  the  white  line  of  her 
bare  arm,  not  an  outline  of  her  face  visible 
to  him  as  she  gazed  out  to  that  land  of  the  moun- 
tains over  which  hung  the  silver  sickle  of  an  early 
moon. 

"Would  you  call  a  man  queer,"  she  asked  sud- 
denly and  turned  round  into  the  room,  letting  the 
curtains  fall  together  behind  her — "would  you  call 
a  man  queer  who  preferred  the  singing  of  birds  to 
the  voices  of  the  greatest  singers,  who  would  sooner 
watch  clouds  gathering  over  the  hills,  and  lapwings 
hovering  over  the  fields,  than  the  motions  of  people 
going  about  the  world,  who  would  sooner  listen  to 
the  babbling  of  a  stream  than  the  talk  of  human 
beings — would  you  call  him  queer?" 

She  was  so  full  of  unexpected  moods  for  Father 
Nolan  that  night  that  he  relinquished  all  hope  of 
understanding  her. 

"Is  there  such  a  man?"  said  he,  at  haphazard  in 
order  to  gain  time. 

"I've  known  a  man  like  that,"  she  replied. 
"Would  you  say  he  was  queer?" 

"Well — I'd  sooner  hear  frogs  croaking  than  I'd 
listen  to  a  fella  with  a  voice  like  Jamesy  Power;  and 
I'd  sooner  see  an  old  cow  going  home  to  be  milked 

149 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

than  I'd  watch  Molly  Heggarty  walking  the  road  to 
Mass  of  a  Sunday.  I  don't  know  would  I  say  he 
was  queer,  if  he'd  as  good  a  reason  for  doing  it  as 
that." 

"I  don't  know  what  his  reason  was,"  said  she. 
"He  just  cut  himself  off  from  the  world  and  there 
was  something  in  his  eyes  that  defied  you — a  sort  of 
mental  advantage,  a  kind  of  spiritual  supremacy,  that 
dared  you  to  assail  it." 

She  had  come  back  into  the  room,  back  to  the 
extravagance  of  a  fire  lit  in  Spring.  And  there  she 
sat,  staring  into  the  glowing  embers  of  it,  with  that 
look  in  her  eyes  women  so  often  indulge  in — a  look 
when  they  fondle  a  memory  with  little  contemplative 
smiles  to  make  you  jealous  of  it.  It  was  inevitable 
that  question  of  his  which  followed.  She  prompted 
— indeed  she  asked  for  it. 

"I  suppose  that  was  why  ye  did  assail  it?"  said 
he. 

She  could  not  quite  trust  her  eyes  to  meet  the 
glance  of  his,  for  in  that  moment  he  had  revealed 
her  to  herself.  She  was  smiling  and  hiding  her 
smile.  He  imagined  it  to  be  of  the  past,  but  what  he 
had  said  was  true  of  her  in  the  days  that  lay  before 
her.  Until  that  instant  she  had  not  fully  realized 
how  surely  the  eyes  of  Anthony  Sorel  had  defied  her; 
had  not  realized  how  surely,  too,  the  spirit  of  Ro- 
mance had  stirred  in  her  to  answer  that  defiance. 

"Am  I  right?"  he  asked  presently,  when  her  head 
was  still  turned  away  from  him  and  she  had  given 
no  answer  to  his  question. 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Then,  with  an  effort,  she  could  look  at  him,  forc- 
ing that  expression  of  far  memory  into  her  eyes, 
simulating  that  note  in  the  voice  which  speaks  of 
what  is  long  distant — a  faintly  refreshed  memory. 

"I  must  be  loved,"  she  answered.  "Don't  you 
know  that?  You  don't  blame  me — do  you?" 

Here,  if  he  but  knew  it,  she  was  seeking  his  ap- 
proval, winning  his  consent  for  the  thing  her  mind 
already  was  deliberating  upon.  With  that  subtle 
logic  of  women,  she  could  deceive  herself  that  the 
issue  was  the  same  whether  it  were  of  a  matter  that 
was  past  or  of  an  intention  yet  to  come.  Forgive- 
ness for  the  thing  done,  she  argued,  was  approval 
of  the  thing  in  contemplation ;  yet  she  knew  well 
enough  that  the  first  was  much  easier  to  obtain. 

Deceived  by  now  by  the  intricacies  of  her  mood, 
the  parish  priest  little  knew  how  he  was  contributing 
to  the  decision  her  mind  had  set  itself  upon. 
Shrewdly  suspicious  though  he  was,  he  was  no  match 
for  her  cunning  here.  He  did  not  blame  her,  he 
said,  but  remembering  the  hopeless  passion  of  the 
man  whose  name  he  had  just  mentioned,  all  his 
sympathies  went  out  to  this  other  victim  of  her 
fascination. 

"An'  I  suppose  ye  robbed  the  pore  fella  of  his 
mental  advantage,"  said  he.  "Ye  didn't  leave  a  rag 
of  that  spiritual  supremacy  to  his  back?" 

He  thought  of  his  own  ideals,  the  illusions  he 
cherished,  the  vows  he  had  taken,  and  a  bitter  regret 
for  the  remorse  that  man  must  have  suffered,  swept 
like  a  hot  wind  across  his  mind.  Almost  he  felt  his 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

anger  rise  against  her,  and  swiftly  enough  she  saw 
that  in  his  eyes. 

"You  don't  like  me,"  she  said  at  once  and  felt  a 
martyr  to  his  anger  because,  she  told  herself,  the 
thing  had  never  been. 

"I'm  not  saying  that,"  said  he. 

"No — but  I  know  that's  what  you  think.  Yet 
after  all  why  should  a  man  be  like  that?  It's  not 
natural,  is  it?  He  wasn't  meant  for  it.  It's  all 
right  for  a  priest." 

He  looked  at  her  seriously,  knowing  that  here  she 
was  saying  things  which  should  be  spoken  of  in 
the  confessional,  yet  finding  himself,  as  often  he  had 
done  before,  giving  her  the  absolution  of  his  sym- 
pathy for  sins  she  had  never  committed. 

"Ye  make  the  great  mistake,"  he  said  at  last, 
"the  way  ye  think  that  celibacy  is  a  matter  of  the 
body  and  not  of  the  mind  at  all.  Is  it  impossible 
for  ye  to  conceive  of  a  man,  without  his  vows  to  the 
church  being  taken,  who  needs  to  lift  his  mind  above 
the  things  ye  set  such  a  pass  on?  Love's  a  great 
thing,  I'm  not  saying  it's  not,  mind  ye;  and  a  good 
many  people  would  be  the  better  for  knowing  what 
it  was.  But  can't  ye  imagine  a  man  making  that 
ideal  of  it,  the  way  he'd  sooner  see  the  end  of  him- 
self than  bring  it  down  to  earth?" 

"Well?"  said  she  and  in  that  one  word  conveyed 
a  thousand  things.  For  suddenly  her  mind  had 
leaped  to  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  such  a  love  as 
that;  suddenly  she  had  caught  sight  of  the  possibility 
of  such  a  love  for  her  in  that  young  man  she  had 

152 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

met  in  the  mountains;  suddenly  she  had  realized 
that  to  such  a  love,  she  could  find  the  answer  to  all 
her  needs  of  life.  And  realizing  it,  in  that  one  word, 
she  had  swiftly  conveyed  to  him  that  this  was  what 
had  happened  in  the  past,  because  of  her  sure  an- 
ticipation of  it  in  the  days  to  come. 

As  readily  he  was  caught  by  the  suggestion  of 
that  delicate  inflexion  in  her  voice. 

"Is  that  what  happened?"  said  he. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"Well,  then,"  he  continued,  "ye  know  what  the 
best  of  love  can  be  like  in  a  man  and  ye  may  go  the 
whole  length  of  yeer  life  and  ye'll  never  find  it 
again.  Did  he  never  say  a  word  of  it  to  ye?" 

"No — not  a  word." 

And  now  to  his  questioning,  with  all  the  eager 
fancy  of  her  imagination,  she  was  presaging  her  own 
Romance  with  Anthony  Sorel  as  she  conceived  it 
well  might  be. 

"I  don't  know  then,"  said  Father  Nolan  presently, 
"that  ye  do  yeerself  justice  when  ye  admit  that 
ye  robbed  the  man  of  his  mental  advantage.  It 
seems  to  me  that  he  must  have  got  away  with  it  safe 
and  sound  and  every  rag  of  spiritual  supremacy 
whole  on  his  back,  though,  mind  ye,  there's  one  thing 
I  can't  understand." 

"What's  that?" 

He  set  his  eyes  with  all  their  shrewdness  straight 
to  hers. 

"I  can  understand,"  said  he,  "how  ye  knew  he 
was  in  love  with  ye — shure  a  woman  sees  that  with 

153 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

her  two  eyes  shut — but  will  ye  tell  me  how  it  was  ye 
let  the  pore  fella  go  an'  he  not  breathing  a  word 
of  it  to  satisfy  the  mere  human  vanity  of  ye?  Can 
ye  tell  me  that?" 

She  could  meet  his  eyes.  In  the  determination 
of  what  she  meant  her  Romance  with  Anthony  Sorel 
should  be,  she  could  resist  the  full  scrutiny  of  his 
glance.  Almost  the  swift  flame  of  indignation  was 
there  in  her  face  as  the  fine  whip  of  his  assumption 
fell  across  her  conscience. 

"I  shouldn't  rob  a  church,"  said  she  and  threw 
her  head  back  to  face  his  eyes.  "Don't  you  know 
that  about  me?" 

"I  do  indeed,"  said  he.  "Ye'd  never  rob  a  church, 
I  know  that;  but  ye'd  make  love  to  the  priest  inside 
of  it" 

There  was  one  instant  when  her  anger  might  have 
overwhelmed  him;  when  there  might  have  been  no 
more  dinners  at  the  big  house  for  him  for  many  a 
week  to  come.  He  knew  that.  His  eyes  twinkled 
with  the  danger  of  it,  knowing,  as  he  did,  that  you 
must  not  speak  truth  to  a  woman.  But  he  had  taken 
his  chance,  well  aware  of  the  woman  he  dealt  with. 
That  was  only  one  instant,  for  the  next  her  eyes 
were  full  of  laughter.  He  was  the  only  man  who 
could  have  dared  to  give  her  truth  like  that.  He 
was  the  only  man  who  could  have  known  it. 

The  laughter  in  her  eyes  came  tumbling  to  her 
lips.  There  were  so  many  things  he  did  not  know, 
that  in  that  moment  she  could  decide  how  little  it 
mattered  that  he  knew  so  much. 

154 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Oh — you're  a  dear  thing,"  she  said  between  her 
laughter.  "I  wouldn't  let  another  man  in  the  world 
know  so  much  about  me."  And  so  persuaded  him 
to  the  belief  he  had  all  there  was  to  know. 

"Well— an'  all  that,"  said  he,  "doesn't  tell  me 
why  ye  let  the  fella  go." 

"He  hasn't  gone,"  said  she. 

"Not  gone?" 

"No — he's  in  love  with  me  still — he'll  always  be 
in  love  with  me." 

For  this  was  how  she  saw  the  devotion  of  An- 
thony Sorel,  lasting  her  life  through;  a  great  and 
imperishable  passion  she  could  feed  her  soul  upon 
when  the  years  had  long  taken  the  beauty  from  her 
eyes. 

"An'  don't  ye  want  him  ever  to  speak  of  it?"  he 
asked. 

Her  eyes  looked  wistful.  It  was  all  so  new  to 
her,  this  sudden  fancy  of  Romance. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  speculatively — "I  don't 
know.  Sometimes  I  believe  I  don't — sometimes  I 
believe  I  do." 

"Are  ye  going  to  marry  him?"  he  whispered. 

She  took  alarm  at  that. 

"Oh — I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  marry!"  she 
exclaimed.  "That  'ud  spoil  it  all." 

"Well,  then,  don't  let  him  speak,"  said  he,  "an' 
he'll  probably  fall  humanly  in  love  with  some  good- 
natured  creature,  the  way  he'll  cherish  an  ideal  for 
the  rest  of  his  days." 

"But  I  don't  want  him  to  fall  in  love  with  any- 
11  155 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

body  else,"  she  retorted  quickly.  "I  suppose  that's 
wrong  of  me — is  it?  Say  it  isn't  wrong." 

For  a  long  moment  he  looked  at  her. 

"Ye  can't  hold  the  world  in  yeer  hand  and  have 
it  at  yeer  feet,"  said  he,  and  then  he  went  into  the 
hall  for  his  old  silk  hat.  She  followed,  watching 
him  as  he  thrust  it  on  his  head. 

"You  haven't  said  it  wasn't  wrong,"  she  said  as 
he  moved  to  the  door. 

"D'ye  want  me  to?" 

"Yes." 

"Well — I  suppose  if  I  said  it  was  wrong,  I  should 
be  finding  fault  with  one  of  the  laws  of  Nature." 

"And  you  don't  do  that — do  you?" 

"I  do  not." 

"Oh— I'm  so  glad." 

She  said  it  again,  as  she  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  For  this  was  her  confession  and  here  was  his 
approval.  It  is  true  he  knew  nothing  of  that  office 
of  confessor  which  had  been  forced  upon  him.  But 
then  so  she  had  determined  it  and,  that  night,  lay 
her  head  down  on  her  pillow  with  a  conscience  warm 
in  the  thought  that  she  had  told  him  everything  there 
was  as  yet  to  tell.  Her  eyes  closed  quite  peacefully 
as  she  went  to  sleep.  Romance  was  before  her. 
There  is  not  much  more  a  woman  asks  for  amongst 
the  glittering  prospects  of  life. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  wa«  the  morning  of  May  Eve  when  next  Anna 
Quartermaine  passed  by  Feagarrid  on  her  way 
up  into  the  mountains.  The  sun  was  a  burning 
light  through  the  mist  as  she  rose  above  the  valley, 
following  the  rough  cart-wheel  tracks  across  the 
moors.  Now  again,  as  always  when  she  walked 
the  countryside  alone,  she  unpinned  the  hat  from  her 
head  and  shook  the  hair  loose  upon  her  forehead. 
This  was  freedom  and  the  sense  of  it  through  every 
pulse.  In  moments  the  humming  below  her  breath 
became  the  uttered  song  in  her  voice,  then  fell  to  the 
muted  note  once  more. 

There  is  fearlessness  and  there  is  joy  in  the  heart 
of  a  woman  when  she  sets  out  in  pursuit  of  Ro- 
mance. Everything  is  to  be  gained  and  not  a  little 
to  lose,  wherefore  her  heart  beats  high  as  in  one 
who  comes  upon  the  hour  of  his  fateful  venture. 

From  that  evening  of  her  confession  to  Father 
Nolan,  her  mind  was  set  upon  meeting  the  young 
man  again  in  the  mountains.  Another  month  of  the 
Spring  there  was  and  a  whole  Summer  yet  before 
her  when,  in  the  uneventful  course  of  life,  she  would 
have  spent  her  days  in  her  garden  or  walking  the 
moors  in  a  happy  freedom,  demanding  the  joy  of 
it  in  all  she  did. 

This  indeed  in  her  earlier  youth  had  been  all  that 
157 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

she  had  asked  of  life.  Abroad,  where  others  were 
content  with  the  exotic  pleasures  of  continental  exist- 
ence, she  had  found  no  joy  but  in  the  wild  silences 
of  untrodden  ways,  wandering  alone  by  herself  every 
day,  returning  tired  at  evening  with  ten  and  twenty 
miles  on  foot  to  the  credit  of  her  strength  and  endur- 
ance. In  Monte  Carlo  where  she  often  went,  in 
Biarritz  too,  it  was  never  for  the  so-called  holiday 
spent  at  the  Casino,  or  on  the  Plage,  wearing  frocks 
to  bestir  the  envy  in  others.  So  she  might  have 
occupied  herself  had  she  chosen;  but  it  was  the  passes 
in  the  mountains  behind  Monte  Carlo  to  Eze  and 
La  Turbie  and  in  Biarritz  into  the  heart  of  the 
Pyrenees  where  she  walked  and  walked  alone. 

They  had  their  gossip  and  their  stories  about  this 
beautiful  Englishwoman  who  at  evening  would  be 
seen  returning  across  the  Plage  in  a  short  tweed 
skirt  and  heavy  boots  all  whitened  with  the  dust  of 
her  travels.  She  had  her  lover,  they  said,  and  hid 
him  in  the  mountains.  They  never  would  have  be- 
lieved she  only  found  the  joy  of  life  in  the  mountain 
wind-flowers,  the  warm  valleys  and  the  sloping  for- 
ests of  the  olive  trees. 

Men  had  loved  her.  That  she  admitted  and  never 
forgot  to  remind  Father  Nolan  of  it.  But  it  had 
been  in  her  solitude  with  Nature,  she  alone  had 
found  the  deepest  meanings  in  life.  Many  were  the 
times  she  had  seated  herself  on  some  lofty  ledge  of 
the  hills,  beside  some  purring  stream,  in  the  heart  of 
some  sunlit  valley  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 
had  let  the  tears  gather  slowly  in  her  eyes  because 

158 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

she  had  never  found  such  understanding  in  human 
beings  as  offered  itself  there  on  every  side  of  her. 

But  now,  latterly,  as  if  with  the  growth  of  her 
character,  had  come  the  need  of  and  the  belief  in 
human  understanding.  The  utmost  of  it,  certainly, 
she  had  found  in  Father  Nolan.  He,  greatly  indeed, 
yet  unconsciously  to  both  of  them,  had  been  the 
cause  of  the  change  in  her.  However,  as  yet,  she 
had  sought  for  it  in  others  and  in  vain.  Many  men 
truly  there  were,  giving  her  devotion,  whole-heart- 
edly, faithfully  and  with  all  the  full  ardor  of  the 
love  she  stirred  in  them.  Nevertheless  and  always 
willingly  receiving  it,  it  still  seemed  to  her  it  was 
not  the  thing  she  asked.  For  however  it  might  be 
that  these  relationships  began,  they  always  culmi- 
nated in  one  inevitable  expression.  So  well  did  she 
know  the  inception  of  that  passion  ultimate  in  their 
minds,  and  so  surely  did  it  terminate  the  higher 
hopes  that  had  been  raised  in  hers. 

Sometimes  there  were  men  in  whom  the  devotion 
that  she  sought  was  not  thus  expressed  in  the  terms 
she  feared.  These  clung  in  her  memory,  cherished 
recollections  she  would  not  part  with,  as  when  a 
man  in  the  sentimentality  of  his  nature  keeps  under 
lock  and  key  a  crumpled  rose,  a  piece  of  faded 
ribbon. 

Had  she  stopped  to  analyze  them,  she  might  have 
realized  how  the  want  of  opportunity  had  made 
them  what  they  were.  But  quite  unconscious  of  that, 
they  remained  memories  of  those  possibilities  of 
Romance  which  a  woman  takes  into  the  imagination 

159 


of  her  heart — a  man  too  for  that  matter — because 
they  had  never  attained  the  full  course  of  their  ex- 
pression. 

These  indeed  are  the  strange  encounters  in  life 
that  linger  while  others,  even  more  definite,  are  lost 
in  the  bewildering  flux  of  time.  Such  an  adventure 
was  one,  constant  in  its  recurrence  to  her  mind.  She 
was  traveling  to  the  South  on  the  Cote  d'Azur  Ex- 
press. In  her  carriage  were  three  women  whose 
conversation  was  not  slow  to  find  its  way  to  the 
edges  of  her  nerves.  Annoyed  at  last  beyond  en- 
durance by  their  empty  chatter,  she  had  left  the  com- 
partment and  wandered  down  the  corridor.  None 
of  the  carriages  were  empty.  Her  own  sex  was 
everywhere  in  occupation  of  some  corner  and  women 
were  not  wildly  to  her  liking  at  any  time. 

There  was  a  smoking  compartment,  however,  hav- 
ing but  one  occupant — a  man  buried  in  his  paper, 
chewing  the  cud  of  contentment  in  a  well-worn  pipe. 
Here  were  all  the  signs  of  peace.  She  had  pulled 
aside  the  door  and,  as  was  customary  in  her  with 
men,  had  had  no  hesitation  in  making  an  immediate 
acquaintance. 

"Shall  I  be  disturbing  you  if  I  come  in  here?"  she 
had  asked,  at  which  the  pipe  had  been  taken  out  of 
his  mouth,  the  paper  flattened  upon  his  knee,  all 
with  an  alacrity  she  expected  of  men,  which  more- 
over she  was  always  ready  to  repay. 

They  had  talked  of  a  thousand  things,  all  strange 
and  interesting  to  her  because  revealing  a  new 
nature.  And  what  was  more,  there  was  admiration 

1 60 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

adding  fresh  light  in  his  eyes  each  moment  as  they 
sped  onwards  to  the  South.  This  was  the  sun  to  her. 
She  breathed  the  joy  of  life  in  the  warmth  of  it. 
There  was  so  much  he  could  have  spoken  had  he 
dared;  so  much  that  circumstance  demanded  he 
should  leave  unsaid.  By  the  time  they  reached 
Lyons,  he  was  saying  them  all  with  his  eyes. 

And  here  it  was,  he  had  told  her,  that  their  jour- 
neys parted.  Even  she  had  not  hid  her  regret  at 
that. 

"Think  of  the  blaze  of  sun  there  will  be  in  the 
South,"  she  said  when  he  helped  her  out  on  to  the 
windy  platform  as  they  went  for  cups  of  hot  coffee. 

That  was  her  way  of  showing  her  regret,  by  mak- 
ing him  regret  their  parting  all  the  more. 

For  a  moment  as  she  sipped  her  hot  coffee  in  the 
drafty  restaurant — a  moment  of  her  sudden  impulse 
— he  left  her.  Five  minutes  he  might  have  been 
gone — no  more — but  a  long  time,  she  thought,  for 
one  who  wished  to  convey  he  was  sorry  to  see  the 
last  of  her.  She  was  laying  her  cup  down  when  he 
returned  and  on  the  platform  the  guards  were  crying, 
"En  voiture!  En  voiture /" 

She  had  hurried  back  to  her  compartment,  but 
before  she  reached  the  carriage,  he  stopped  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"Bon  'voyage''  he  said,  "et  tout  le  soleil  que  votts 
merit  ez." 

"Not  even  seeing  me  into  my  carriage?"  she  asked 
— frankly  disappointed  now. 

He  took  her  to  the  steps  of  the  corridor,  then, 
161 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

lifting  his  hat,  he  turned  and  hurried  away,  never 
looking  round,  though  she  stood  there  upon  the  steps 
to  give  him  every  opportunity. 

When  she  reached  the  empty  smoking  compart- 
ment there  was  the  seat  she  had  occupied  heaped 
with  a  pyramid  of  red  roses  and  on  the  top  of  it  a 
scrap  of  paper.  Something  was  written  upon  it. 
She  had  picked  it  up  and  read  the  words : 

Thank  God  I  am  not  coming  to  the  South. 

There  was  a  proof  of  the  impulse  it  had  been. 
He  had  not  even  stopped  to  consider  the  wrong  con- 
struction being  put  upon  what  he  wrote.  There  had 
been  but  one  meaning  in  his  mind.  She  knew  what 
it  was.  While  the  train  was  speeding  through  the 
little  station  of  Tarascon,  she  was  still  sorting  out 
the  roses  from  the  forest  upon  the  seat. 

This  was  a  memory  she  cherished.  Had  he  ever 
said  more  than  those  clumsy  words,  hastily  written 
on  that  slip  of  paper,  it  had  been  a  thing  she  might 
so  easily  have  forgotten. 

Father  Nolan  had  been  the  parish  priest  in  Bally- 
saggartmore  some  two  or  three  years  before  that  had 
happened.  She  had  told  him  all  about  it,  half  lightly, 
half  with  those  tender  little  tricks  of  recollection  as 
when  she  spoke  of  all  the  men  who  had  loved  her. 
And  this  incident  had  been  but  one,  marking  the 
inception  of  that  change  in  her  nature. 

Now,  loving  the  untrodden  ways  of  the  world  just 
as  well  as  ever,  she  had  come  to  find  understanding 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

also  in  human  creatures  that  beat  a  heart  with  hers. 
And  so  it  was  there  had  risen  in  her  mind  this  wel- 
come expectancy  of  Romance,  changing  the  whole 
prospect  of  the  idle  months  that  lay  before  her. 

For  the  first  hour,  in  the  sheer  joy  of  that  Spring- 
time of  the  year,  she  almost  forgot  the  mission  upon 
which  she  was  bent.  But  as  the  still  slopes  of  the 
mountains  rose  above  her  and  the  green  emerald  of 
that  valley  of  the  Araglin  lay  below,  her  heart  began 
a  livelier  pulse.  The  blood  came  quickly  and  as 
quickly  went  in  sudden  flushes  upon  her  cheeks. 

Supposing  he  were  not  to  be  found?  Was  she  to 
count  the  day  and  all  those  miles  that  lay  behind 
her  as  wasted — just  thrown  away,  dead  empty  things, 
from  the  lap  of  time?  A  few  years  before  that 
would  never  have  been;  but  now,  as  the  thought 
reached  her,  she  was  conscious  of  apprehension  and 
the  prospect  of  her  chagrin  if  it  should  be  so. 

The  table  rock  as  she  came  upon  the  sight  of  it 
was  no  longer  occupied.  No  one  was  to  be  seen. 
Here  and  there  a  stray  sheep  grazed  on  the  falling 
slopes.  The  clouds  over  the  Galtee  mountains  were 
the  only  moving  things  that  met  her  eyes.  In  count- 
less broken  shapes,  like  the  sails  of  a  fishing  fleet, 
they  rode  out  into  the  immeasurable  blue  from  their 
hidden  harbor  of  the  hills. 

A  wide  world  she  found  it  was  in  which  to  search 
for  one  human  being.  Great  though  the  distances 
of  vision  might  be,  there  was  many  a  hidden  pass, 
many  a  rent  and  turn  in  the  rolling  sweep  of  the  hills 
where  the  eye  could  be  cheated  in  its  pursuit.  She 

163 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

sat  down  on  a  bowlder  that  had  come  to  rest,  half 
embedded  in  a  mound  of  earth.  Now  she  realized 
how,  without  the  generosity  of  chance,  it  were  almost 
a  futile  hope  to  think  of  meeting  him. 

Yet  there  she  remained  for  an  hour  and  more, 
taking  in  with  her  eyes  that  broad  prospect  of  the 
hills  she  supposed  he  fed  his  mind  upon.  There 
were  the  lapwings,  tumbling  and  turning  in  their 
seemingly  senseless  flight  above  the  green  fields  of 
the  valley.  Not  more  than  a  few  yards  from  her  a 
lark  rose  up,  scattering  the  notes  of  its  song  as  it 
lifted  into  the  air.  Stone-chats  were  chirping  in  their 
sudden  invisible  flights  from  one  rock  to  another. 
Now  and  again  a  bee  with  muted  thunder  would  rush 
by  her  ears.  A  stoat  crept  out  of  the  brush  of  the 
heather  on  to  the  little  beaten  path.  He  lifted  his 
sharp  nose  suspiciously  and  sniffed  the  air.  Though 
she  never  stirred,  she  could  see  how  well  aware  of 
her  he  was.  Every  movement  of  his  sinuous  body 
as  he  crept  away  was  apprehensive  and  alert. 

That  short  hour  brought  to  her  mind  the  knowl- 
edge that  there  is  no  real  solitude  in  the  world;  it 
showed  her  too  the  utter  peacefulness  with  which  his 
mind  must  live.  And  then,  while  she  was  still  sit- 
ting there,  her  eyes  picked  out  the  figure  of  a  man 
climbing  slowly  up  the  path  from  the  valley  by  which 
she  had  come. 

Whatever  the  first  impression  may  have  been, 
stirring  her  blood  to  a  sudden  motion,  she  soon  real- 
ized that  it  was  not  the  figure  of  him  for  whom 
she  had  been  seeking.  It  was  an  elderly  man — 

164 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

one,  nving  in  a  cottage,  no  doubt,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  those  hills.  As  soon  as  she  realized  by  his 
apparent  direction,  he  must  pass  her  way,  she  sat 
there  waiting,  her  mind  already  determined  upon 
what  she  would  do. 

In  time  he  turned  a  corner  of  the  path,  when  at 
once  his  little  wrinkled  eyes  took  sight  of  her.  She 
thought  again  of  the  stoat  she  had  seen  as  she 
watched  him  approaching.  There  was  the  same 
sharp  suspicious  air  about  him  as  he  came  slowly 
to  where  she  sat.  When  he  was  but  a  few  paces 
off,  she  spoke. 

"There's  a  man  living  up  here  alone  in  the  moun- 
tains," she  said.  "Could  you  tell  me  where  his  cot- 
tage is?" 

"There's  more  than  one  man  livin'  alone  in  the 
windy  corners  of  these  hills,"  said  he,  stopping  and 
resting  on  his  stick  as  he  peered  at  her.  "Shure 
don't  I  live  meself  over  there  in  that  little  cabin 
below  Crow  Hill  where  ye  can  see  the  shmoke  twist- 
in'  up  out  of  it  now?" 

She  smiled,  telling  him  he  was  not  the  man  she 
meant.  "He's  younger  than  you,"  she  added. 

She  felt  he  knew  well  enough  of  whom  she  was 
speaking  and  only  with  the  cunning  of  a  child  was 
assuming  ignorance  in  order  to  discover  something 
about  herself.  She  had  not  been  born,  nor  had  she 
lived,  amongst  these  people  without  knowing  some- 
thing about  them. 

"An'  is  it  yeerself  has  come  all  the  ways  from 
Lismore  to  see  him?"  he  asked. 

165 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"I  might  have  come  from  Lismore,"  she  replied 
and  smiled  again.  "But  telling  you  where  I  come 
from  won't  help  me  to  find  out  what  I  want  to  know. 
He  told  me  that  his  cabin  was  on  Knockshunahal- 
lion — that's  Knockshunahallion,  isn't  it?" 

She  pointed  to  the  highest  peak  in  the  range  which, 
even  on  so  clear  a  day  as  that,  caught  the  fleece  of 
the  little  clouds  as  they  drifted  by. 

"Oh — shure  'tis  him  that  calls  himself  Anthony 
Sorel,"  said  he,  finding  further  evasion  impossible. 

"Isn't  that  his  right  name?" 

"It  is,  of  course.  Wasn't  it  the  name  he  wrote 
on  Michael  Quinn's  piece  of  paper  and  they  comin' 
to  a  wordy  agreement  about  the  cottage  the  way 
ye'd  think  Michael  was  selling  him  a  king's  palace 
in  four  walls?" 

"How  far  is  it  from  here?" 

"  'Twould  step  about  a  mile." 

"Do  you  think  I  should  be  likely  to  find  him 
there?" 

He  pushed  back  his  hat  and  scratched  his  head. 

"Well — "  said  he — "I  saw  him  walkin'  the  road 
into  Lismore  last  Tuesda'  an'  would  he  be  back 
by  now,  I  dunno.  'Tis  three  days  he'd  be  away 
every  month,  like  a  thing  come  and  gone  out  of  the 
mist." 

She  felt  that  Fate  was  preparing  her  for  disap- 
pointment, yet  even  so,  curiosity  was  still  to  be  fed. 
Having  come  so  far,  at  least  she  wanted  to  see 
where  he  lived.  Her  companion  was  going  that 
way  and  undertook  to  show  her. 

166 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

For  some  little  way,  they  walked  then  in  silence; 
she  on  the  trodden  path,  he  through  the  heather  at 
her  side. 

"  'Tisn't  often  we  see  the  fine  gentry  from  Lis- 
more  in  these  lonesome  parts,"  he  said  presently. 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  replied. 

"Not  unless  they  be  gentlemen  and  they  wid  their 
guns  and  the  dogs  barkin'  across  the  face  of  the 


moors." 


"Does  Anthony  Sorel  come  up  here  for  the  shoot- 
ing then?"  she  asked  and  found  the  name  lingering 
on  her  lips  as  one  who  tries  the  taste  of  something 
in  his  mouth. 

"Shure,  he  does  not.  Doesn't  he  live  here  the 
year  round." 

"What  does  he  do  then?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  as  though  that  were  a  strange 
question  to  hear. 

"What  would  a  man  be  doin'  in  the  mountains," 
he  asked,  "and  he  havin'  the  songs  of  all  the  four 
winds  to  be  tellin'  himself?" 

"Is  he  a  poet?" 

"He  is  indeed,  an'  'tis  women  with  the  beauty  in 
their  face  would  be  sittin'  through  the  long  night  to 
hear  the  music  of  the  words  that  come  out  of  him 
an'  he  speakin'  the  sorrows  of  Ireland  an'  the  shad- 
ows of  death  till  the  tears  would  bring  salt  to  the 
drought  of  yeer  lips." 

He  stopped  and  pointed  to  a  little  whitewashed 
cabin  that  hung  on  the  side  of  the  hill  above  them. 

"There  he  lives,"  said  he  and  then  he  added  enig- 
167 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

matically:  "  'Tis  a  woman  with  the  fall  of  night  in 
her  eyes  will  come  one  day  knockin'  at  his  door  an' 
he  stretchin'  out  his  arms  the  way  she'll  find  the 
world  in  them." 

This  he  said,  standing  there  like  a  prophet  on  the 
slope  of  the  land,  and  then  he  left  her. 

With  a  strange  feeling  in  her  heart,  outgrowing 
curiosity,  she  climbed  upwards  to  where  the  cabin 
stood.  A  wall  of  sullen  rock  rose  up  behind  it.  It 
was  perched  there  upon  the  mountainside  looking 
down  through  a  gap  into  the  far  valley  below,  like 
a  bird  leaning  against  the  wind. 

The  door  was  closed,  the  window  shut  and  there 
she  stood,  her  whole  mind  drawn  in  some  mysterious 
attraction  to  the  thought  of  the  man  who  lived  there. 
With  what  she  knew  herself,  with  what  the  old  man 
had  just  told  her,  there  was  little  to  set  the  imagina- 
tion upon.  And  yet  never  had  she  felt  life  to  be  so 
palpitating  with  possibility  as  then. 

As  if  to  set  it  in  motion  and  before  she  could  turn 
away,  the  door  of  the  cabin  had  opened  and  there 
stood  Anthony  Sorel,  cut  clear  against  the  blackness 
within. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  may  have  been  in  those  moments  as  they  stood 
looking  at  each  other  that  Anthony  Sorel  saw 
some  swift  vision  of  the  destiny  before  him;  and 
Anna  Quartermaine  no  less  than  he  of  her  own. 
Certain  it  was  a  long  passage  of  time  at  such  a  junc- 
ture before  he  spoke.  And  then,  when  his  voice 
came  from  him,  it  was  as  one  who  speaks,  thinking 
he  sees  the  spirit  rather  than  the  substance.  What 
with  confusion  and  astonishment,  she  was  as  much 
disconcerted  as  he.1 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  said  at  last,  just  as  if 
she  were  a  ghost  that  had  come  to  trouble  him. 
She  looked  up  at  his  eyes  and  answered  in  the  same 
uncertain  voice. 

"I  don't  want  anything,"  she  said  and  could  not 
fasten  her  mind  upon  the  actual  fact  of  her  being 
there  or  why  she  had  come,  but  was  obsessed  only 
by  the  absorbing  strangeness  of  him  and  of  his  life. 
He  had  told  her  that  he  lived  alone  there  in  the 
mountains,  yet  only  now,  as  he  came  out  of  the  door 
of  his  cabin,  had  she  realized  how  much  alone  and 
how  absolutely  aloof  he  was. 

1  As  Malachi  described  her  to  me,  recounting  this  moment  of  his 
story:  "She  stood  there  eyein'  him,  with  the  wind  tossin'  her  hair, 
and  her  two  feet  like  shtones  on  the  mountain,  the  way  the  blood 
was  drawn  out  cold  in  them,  an'  she  countin'  the  leps  of  her  heart 
like  one  countin'  their  beads  in  the  fear  of  death." — E.  T.  T. 

169 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Why  do  you  come  here  then?"  he  continued. 
Without  any  harshness  in  his  voice,  the  question  yet 
had  some  odor  of  reproof.  She  felt  somehow  pow- 
erless to  resent  it,  however,  as  if  a  priest  had  accused 
her  of  trespass  in  the  sacred  and  secluded  cloisters 
of  a  church.  What  was  more,  as  if  to  a  priest,  she 
found  herself  answering  the  simple  truth. 

"I  wanted  to  see  where  you  lived,"  said  she. 

"Why?" 

"I  was  curious,  I  suppose." 

He  threw  wide  open  the  door  he  had  half  closed 
behind  him  and  the  gesture,  simple  and  undramatic 
as  it  was,  had  the  fullness  of  power  to  her.  She 
could  not  have  misunderstood  it;  she  could  have 
needed  of  it  no  other  explanation.  Without  a  word 
she  accepted  the  invitation  and  walked  into  the  cabin. 

Had  she  expected  much,  little  was  there  to  fulfill 
her  expectations.  But  she  was  not  conscious  of  hav- 
ing expected  anything.  His  personality  was  there, 
making  all  that  atmosphere  about  her.  The  sim- 
plicity of  everything,  the  plain  bed,  in  which  old 
Heggarty  had  died,  with  its  patchwork  quilt  covering 
the  bedclothes,  the  simple  furniture  he  had  bought 
in  Fermoy,  the  Russian  crucifix  in  the  chimney  cor- 
ner, it  was  all  no  less  wonderful  to  her  than  if  the 
room  had  been  as  the  imagination  of  Shauneen  Troy 
had  seen  it.  It  was  the  man  and  his  life  that  colored 
everything  she  saw.  The  chairs  upon  which  he  sat, 
the  bed  on  which  he  slept,  the  table  at  which  he  ate 
his  meals,  associated  themselves  in  her  mind  with 
the  strange  loneliness  of  his  being.  She  stared  at 

170 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

them  all  and  round  about  the  room  as  though  every- 
thing, valueless  in  itself,  were  of  absorbing  and 
peculiar  interest. 

When  she  brought  her  eyes  back,  looking  to  him, 
he  took  her  gaze  to  be  inquiry  and  said,  "This  is 
all — "  as  though  he  supposed  she  had  expected  more. 

It  was  not  easy  after  that  to  break  into  usual  con- 
versation such  as  would  have  been  possible  under 
more  ordinary  circumstances.  She  felt  she  ought  to 
apologize  for  her  curiosity;  had  come  so  far  to  it 
as  the  framing  of  the  words  upon  her  lips  but  could 
not  utter  them.  The  formality  of  that  apology 
seemed  ludicrous  as  she  contemplated  it.  So,  still 
she  stood,  looking  first  at  him,  then  at  the  room 
about  her,  in  that  way  as  when  a  child  is  discovered 
in  its  guilt  and  awaits  the  proclamation  of  punish- 
ment. This  was  the  strange  power  of  his  presence 
beside  her.  All  that  she  thought  of  seemed  folly  to 
say. 

When  he  broke  the  spell  of  that  and  spoke,  it  was 
only  to  add  another,  the  mysterious  quality  of  his 
voice.  She  had  been  aware  of  it  before,  when  they 
had  spoken  on  the  mountainside.  Now,  within 
those  four  walls,  it  was  intensified.  She  found  her- 
self listening  for  the  sound  of  it  as  she  might  be 
listening  to  music,  sensitive  to  the  note  of  its  quiet 
restraint. 

"Now  you  have  seen  all  that  is  to  be  seen,"  he 
said. 

The  suggestion  of  resentment  in  that,  not  in  his 
voice,  but  in  the  mere  words  as  he  used  them,  urged 
12  171 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

her  at  least  to  dispel  it.  He  was  dismissing  her  and, 
with  so  little  accomplished,  she  refused  to  be  dis- 
missed. 

"But  I  understand  nothing  at  all  that  might  be 
understood,"  she  replied,  half  concealing  the  au- 
dacity of  that  in  the  gentleness  of  her  voice,  soften- 
ing it  in  the  light  of  her  smile. 

He  succumbed  to  neither.  There  had  been  no 
resentment  in  him.  Of  such  a  humor  as  this,  his 
conscience  was  wholly  free.  In  those  two  years  of 
his  solitude,  his  mind  had  found  that  quietness  which 
is  not  easily  stirred  to  impulsive  reaction.  He 
scarcely  even  asked  himself,  beyond  those  questions 
he  had  put  to  her,  why  she  had  come  so  far  into  the 
mountains  and  with  this  paltry  pretext,  just  to  see 
where  he  lived.  He  did  not  even  realize  how  de- 
liberately beautiful  she  was,  but  stood  there  in  those 
first  moments,  merely  wondering  when  she  would  go. 

She  understood  nothing,  she  said.  Well — what 
was  there  to  understand?  He  asked  her  that.  What 
was  there  to  understand? 

"Why  you  live  here,"  she  answered  and  reminded 
him  how  he  had  invited  her  curiosity  when  they  had 
first  met.  She  recalled  the  words  to  his  mind.  "You 
asked  me  to  think  over  it,"  she  said — "whether  you 
were  queer  or  not." 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"Well — I  have  thought  about  it  and  perhaps 
you're  not — queer — but  all  the  same  I  don't  under- 
stand. I  suppose  it's  because  you're  a  poet  and 
want  to  be  close  to  Nature — but  why  do  you  ignore 

172 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

human  nature?  Why  do  you  cut  yourself  so  abso- 
lutely adrift  from  the  world?" 

"Who  told  you  I  wrote  poetry?"  he  asked. 

"An  old  man  coming  across  the  mountains." 

"Old  Malachi." 

"He  didn't  tell  me  his  name." 

"It  was  Malachi,"  he  repeated.  "But  he's  more 
of  a  poet  than  I  shall  ever  be.  I've  tried  to  take 
down  some  of  the  things  he  says  to  me,  the  tales 
he  tells  of  the  faeries  and  all  the  strange  things 
that  happen  in  these  mountains  and  when  I  come  to 
read  them  over  afterwards,  I  know  that  they  are 
more  instinct  with  the  sense  of  poetry  than  anything 
I  shall  ever  do — unless  I  succeed." 

She  was  quick  to  know  that  in  his  hesitation  he 
had  spoken  of  something  that  was  secret  to  himself. 
If  he  succeeded — that  was  the  first  confession  he 
had  made.  At  once  she  asked  him  what  he  meant 
by  that  but  his  answer  only  confused  her  the  more. 

He  told  her  indefinitely  of  desires  to  overcome 
the  despotism  of  life,  as  one  who  rises  against  estab- 
lished government  and  flings  his  soul  into  the  tumult 
of  revolution.  Nothing  that  she  called  humanity, 
the  humanity  she  had  accustomed  herself  to  deal 
with,  was  to  be  found  in  him  as  yet.  He  spoke  of 
motives  that  only  bewildered  her;  but  notwithstand- 
ing, as  he  made  them  glowing  with  words,  she  felt 
behind  it  all  some  mystery  of  meaning  full  of  an 
absorbing  interest  it  was  impossible  to  deny. 

This  effect  it  had  upon  her,  that  now  she  was 
determined  to  understand  it  all.  The  very  sen- 

173 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

sitiveness  of  him  enticed  her.  The  element  of  mys- 
tery in  him  urged  her  on.  She  put  forth  all  those 
powers  of  sympathy  of  which  the  will  of  a  woman 
is  capable;  at  one  moment  a  child  eager  to  learn 
and  again  maternal  in  her  readiness  to  hear. 

So  long  had  he  lived  apart  from  the  ways  of 
women,  that  Anthony  Sorel  drifted  into  confession 
as  one  who  succumbs  to  the  peaceful  narcotic  of  a 
drug.  When  she  asked  if  she  might  hear  his  poetry, 
he  rose,  like  a  child,  and  went  to  a  drawer  of  the 
dresser  that  stood  against  the  wall,  bringing  out  a 
sheaf  of  papers  covered  with  that  same  illegible 
writing  they  had  deciphered  with  such  difficulty  on 
Michael  Quinn's  agreement. 

One  after  another  he  read  them  to  her  until  the 
sound  of  his  voice  and  the  beauty  of  the  words  be- 
came as  one  in  her  ears  and  had  with  them  all  the 
charm  of  music  that  nurses  and  thrills  the  emotions 
from  sleep  to  wakefulness.  She  knew  she  was  fast 
falling  under  the  spell  of  romantic  enchantment. 
Here  it  truly  seemed  was  a  man  who  could  be  all 
things.  In  the  spirit  of  him  was  all  the  ring  and 
adventurousness  of  life.  In  a  fierce  tumult,  she  felt 
he  could  ride  out  into  the  hour  of  battle,  yet  turn 
to  such  gentleness  as  she  had  never  experienced  be- 
fore. 

With  a  passive  willingness,  she  let  the  spell  of 
it  surround  and  envelop  her  until,  as  she  listened, 
there  was  one  poem  that  he  read,  to  which  the  swift 
heat  of  a  jealous  apprehension  brought  sudden  reac- 
tion. 

174 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"I  gave  my  spirit  to  a  bird  in  flight, 
And  watched  it  soaring  ever  out  of  sight; 
Till,  like  a  fountain's  spray  in  summer  heat, 
All  palpitating  fell  its  singing  at  my  feet. 

"There  in  the  arch  of  the  abundant  sky, 
Where  other  spirits  are  forever  passing  by, 
My  soul  leaned  out  into  the  amazing  blue, 
And  found  the  imperishable  soul  of  you." 

She  let  him  read  on,  but  with  a  bitter  conviction 
that  the  enchantment  was  ended.  The  mind  that 
had  conceived  those  words  had  fixed  a  gulf  between 
itself  and  her.  There  was  some  woman — how  could 
she  ever  have  doubted  it? — laying  her  claim  to  him. 
A  glance  at  his  face,  sensitive  and  emotional,  how- 
ever stern  and  ascetic  it  might  be  too,  had  promised 
enough  in  their  first  meeting  to  convince  her  of  the 
passionate  and  relentless  lover  he  could  be.  With 
quick  intuitive  calculations,  she  surmised  the  roman- 
tic purpose  of  his  solitude,  counting  herself  before 
a  far  more  formidable  rival  than  this  celibate  asceti- 
cism with  which  he  had  dammed  the  stream  of  Na- 
ture in  his  being. 

Nevertheless,  she  let  him  finish  before  she  spoke, 
saying  to  herself,  as  she  had  said  to  Father  Nolan, 
that  it  was  not  she  who  would  rob  a  church,  yet 
thinking  bitterly  no  less  of  the  woman  who  gave 
him  sanctuary. 

"I  gave  my  spirit  to  a  bird  in  flight; 
Its  wings  are  caught  now  in  a  passion's  plight — 

175 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

And  gone  are  all  the  truths  I  ever  knew, 
And  gone  is  the  immeasurable  soul  of  you." 

She  looked  up,  as  he  looked  up,  resetting  in  that 
single  instant  all  her  surest  calculations;  seeing  him 
bereft  of  sanctuary,  no  longer  the  church  she  would 
not  rob,  but  now,  as  Father  Nolan  had  said,  the 
priest  whose  love  her  nature  must  command. 

"Have  you  lost  her  long?"  she  asked  gently. 

"Lost  whom?" 

He  put  the  paper  down  and  stared  with  question- 
ing eyes — almost  as  children  look. 

"The  woman  you  loved?" 

One  by  one  he  picked  the  papers  up  and  took  them 
to  the  drawer  of  the  dresser  and  stood  there,  arrang- 
ing them  as  he  put  them  back,  with  that  hesitation 
of  movement  which  shows  the  deep  preoccupation 
of  the  mind. 

But  she  would  not  be  denied.  If  he  had  chosen 
silence  to  avoid  her  question,  it  availed  him  noth- 
ing. 

"Is  that  why  you  live  here?"  she  asked  and  with 
that  note  of  sympathy  which  soothes,  invites, 
caresses.  There  was  no  need  to  bring  it  to  her  voice. 
There  it  was.  She  felt  sympathy  drawn  from  her  to 
the  silent  figure  of  him  struggling,  as  she  knew  he 
was,  against  himself,  to  keep  the  virtue  and  the  vigor 
of  his  solitude. 

"Didn't  you  come  here,  up  into  the  mountains," 
slie  persisted  gently,  "because  you  wanted  to  for- 
get her?  Wasn't  that  it?" 

176 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"And  gone  were  all  the  truths  I  ever  knew, 
And  gone  was  the  imperishable  soul  of  you." 

She  could  quote  the  lines  without  hesitation  or 
mistake.  The  sound  of  them  in  her  voice  brought 
him  round  to  her.  Nothing  had  made  him  realize 
her  sympathy  so  well  as  that. 

"There  was  no  woman,"  he  said,  "no  woman,  like 
that." 

"Why  did  you  write  it  then?" 

"Because  I  believed  that  of  myself  at  the  time. 
I  believed  I  should  one  day  love  like  that — and 
lose  like  that.  You  didn't  understand  me  a  little 
while  ago  when  I  talked  of  the  despotism  of  life. 
That's  why  I'm  here.  I'm  trying  to  forget  all 
women,  not  one.  When  I  first  came  here  I  could 
not  have  given  my  spirit  to  a  bird  in  flight.  My 
nature  is  emotional.  Perhaps  you  know  that  al- 
ready. But  emotions  like  everyone  else's,  that  bring 
lead  into  my  feet  and  make  a  servant  of  me,  not  a 
free  man.  Last  time  you  saw  me,  I  was  watching 
the  larks  rise  out  of  the  heather — well,  one  of  these 
days,  I  shall  get  freedom  like  that.  It's  only  up 
there  where  the  lark  rises  and  the  clouds  ride  in  the 
sky  that  you  see  things  beautiful  for  the  beauty  they 
have.  Here,  a  thing  is  only  beautiful  for  the  emo- 
tions it  brings  you." 

He  stopped  suddenly  with  a  gesture  of  despair  as 
though  he  knew  he  was  speaking  the  everlasting 
riddle  of  the  universe.  With  that  same  gesture 
of  despair,  he  closed  the  drawer  of  the  dresser  and 

177 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

strode  to  the  door,  standing  there  and  looking  across 
the  mountains  where  the  little  spring  freshets  were 
falling  white  like  strands  of  silver  hair  between  the 
bowlders. 

She  let  him  keep  his  silence  now,  knowing  that 
he  must  speak  again  in  such  time  as  the  course  of 
his  thoughts  had  run.  But  when  he  turned,  she 
was  unprepared  for  what  he  had  to  say. 

"Why  did  you  come  up  here  again,"  he  asked, 
"reminding  me  of  the  things  I  had  forgotten?" 

"What  things?" 

"This — this  life  here — the  solitude,  the  loneliness 
of  it." 

Suddenly  he  left  the  door  and  came  back  into  the 
room,  moved  by  restlessness  now.  He  found  a  seat 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  chimney  corner  and  sat  there 
staring  into  the  fire.  As  suddenly  then,  breaking 
his  silence  as,  on  an  instant's  determination,  a  man 
might  break  a  sword  across  his  knees,  he  launched 
forth  into  an  endless  confession  of  his  innermost 
self — the  speech  of  a  man  in  whom  the  pent-up 
silences  have  broken  down,  flooding  in  a  torrent  of 
words  no  resistance  of  the  spirit  can  stem. 

He  told  her  of  his  life  in  London  and  abroad, 
before  he  came  to  Knockshunahallion — the  confes- 
sion of  a  child,  unsparing  and  relentless  in  its  cruel 
honesty. 

By  slow  degrees  she  saw  the  thing  he  had  been,  a 
creature  driven  by  emotions,  yet  finding  none  to 
feed  his  soul  upon,  struggling  in  the  drifting  sands 
with  eyes  blinded  as  he  turned  them  ever  to  the 

178 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

unapproachable  wonder  of  the  sun.  It  was  the 
admission  of  a  life  no  man  she  had  ever  known 
would  ask  blame  for,  indeed  a  greater  spirit  than 
she  had  ever  met,  battling  against  the  unaccountable 
odds. 

It  was  only  when  he  came  to  the  setting  forth  of 
his  philosophy  that  she  lost  sight  in  the  swift  and 
upward  flights  he  took.  Here  he  came  into  the  re- 
gions of  his  mysticism,  an  atmosphere  too  rarefied 
for  her  to  breathe.  Now  he  was  talking  of  the 
faeries  as  a  man  speaks  with  familiarity  of  those 
about  him  in  a  strange  land.  She  could  see  visions 
in  his  eyes  as  the  words  came  tumbling  from  his 
lips.  Indeed  it  was  of  visions  he  talked  as  well,  but 
not  as  one  versed  in  occult  practices,  burning  strange 
incense  to  numb  the  senses,  seeking  for  signs,  self- 
hypnotized,  in  a  crystal  globe.  He  spoke  gently, 
almost  with  awe,  as  one  who  has  seen  and  heard 
and  can  never  forget.  This  was  where  she  lost 
knowledge  of  him.  This  was  where  she  made  the 
fatal  error  in  her  soul. 

Why,  she  asked  herself,  as  she  listened,  why  does 
he  wish  that  I  had  never  come  again?  She  could 
not  but  believe  that  this  outpouring  of  his  mind, 
bringing  echoes  of  life  into  those  pent-up  silences, 
was  healthful,  as  they  would  tell  her  was  confession 
for  the  soul. 

For  now,  as  with  a  lark  in  flight,  soaring  into  the 
blue  zenith  of  the  heavens,  her  mental  vision  could 
not  keep  sight  of  him.  He  had  left  her  standing 
there  on  earth,  listening  only  to  the  words  he  said 

179 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

with  but  the  faintest  comprehension  of  their  mean- 
ing. 

He  had  chosen  this  life  of  a  recluse  to  gain  a 
calm,  a  vigor  and  a  strength  of  his  emotional  imagi- 
nation. There,  living  as  a  solitary  in  those  moun- 
tains, he  was  striving  to  achieve  the  conquest  of  mind 
over  the  sensations  of  his  body. 

The  ambition  baffled  her.  She  could  not  follow 
its  ultimate  gain.  There  was  Nature  in  her,  as  in 
all  women;  she  saw  no  other  law.  This  was  the 
madness  in  him  he  had  bid  her  seek  for  when  he  had 
left  her  that  first  day  of  their  meeting.  Now  she 
had  found  it,  but  instead  of  repelling,  it  attracted 
her.  There  was  a  fascination  in  all  the  wild  mys- 
ticism he  talked.  This  celibate  asceticism  he  upheld, 
little  as  she  understood  it,  set  her  heart  beating  in 
a  tumult  of  Romance. 

Here  was  the  error  that  she  made,  fatal  for  him ; 
the  fatal  error  ultimately  for  herself. 

With  her  knowledge  of  men,  how  could  she  be- 
lieve him  when  he  told  her  that  it  was  in  the  soul 
of  all  men  to  seek  this  pathway  to  the  mysterious 
stars  ? 

"The  celibacy  of  men  is  a  voluntary  celibacy,"  he 
said  to  give  her  proof  of  it;  but  with  the  men  she 
had  known  and  the  ultimate  expressions  of  their 
emotions,  she  could  but  smile  reminiscently  at  that, 
forgetting  her  Father  Nolan  in  his  shelter  of  the 
church. 

"This  is  a  phase,"  she  told  herself  as  she  listened, 
1 80 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

clinging  to  Nature,  unshaken  in  her  belief  of  it. 
But  it  was  a  phase  she  had  never  met  in  a  man 
before.  At  least  there  was  no  pretense  in  it.  For 
two  years  he  had  been  alone  there  in  those  mountains 
— a  Buddha,  fasting  in  the  wilderness.  But  how 
could  she  believe  him  when  he  told  her  that  all  men, 
before  the  despotism  of  life  had  made  them  slaves, 
would  so  struggle,  so  endure? 

"Why  don't  they  then?"  she  asked. 

"Life  seizes  a  man  too  swiftly,"  said  he.  "Before 
the  mind  is  awake  in  him  the  body  has  tasted  the 
easy  joys  of  a  pleasant  servitude.  How  many  think 
in  time?  Bring  children  up  in  the  world  of  faeries 
these  poor  people  live  in,"  he  declared,  "and  watch 
the  youth  of  a  man  before  he  touches  life.  His 
ideals  are  like  swallows  flying  swift  and  high.  Never 
the  earth  for  them." 

He  would  say  no  more;  indeed  he  had  no  powers 
of  speech  in  argument.  She  would  have  driven  him 
to  silence  had  she  asked  him  more. 

"There  are  meanings  the  mind  has  no  concern 
with,"  he  said.  "Facts  have  meanings  and  facts 
die." 

He  could  only  speak  to  her  sympathetic  listen- 
ing, and  then  with  halting  phrases,  of  the  visions 
his  soul  encountered.  When  she  would  reason  with 
him  this  or  that,  it  was  like  bringing  a  bird  to  earth 
with  a  broken  wing.  He  would  turn  and  look  at 
her  in  helpless  silence. 

"But  why — "  she  said  at  last — "why  did  you  wish 
181 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

I  had  not  found  my  way  here  again?  What  harm 
have  I  done?  Haven't  I  been  sympathetic?  Do 
you  deny  yourself  even  that?" 

He  stretched  out  his  hands  over  the  fire  as  if  in 
that  there  were  more  of  human  understanding. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  said  suddenly. 

She  told  him,  but  he  listened  as  though  it  made 
no  matter  who  she  was.  Almost  before  she  had 
finished,  he  was  speaking  quickly  again,  telling  her 
that  she  was  the  despotism  of  life,  reminding  him  of 
his  loneliness,  reviving  in  him  the  hunger  for  sym- 
pathetic companionship  which  in  those  two  years  he 
had  almost  taught  his  mind  to  renounce. 

"But  are  you  always  going  to  renounce  it?"  she 
asked. 

"Who  knows  what  any  man  is  always  going  to 
do?"  said  he.  "Buddha  lived  the  life  of  a  hermit 
and  found  that  truth  was  not  to  be  learnt  in  lonely 
places ;  then  he  came  out  into  the  world.  But  it  was 
in  the  lonely  places  he  had  first  found  the  calm  and 
vigor  of  his  soul.  Do  you  think  I  ever  thought  when 
I  came  alone  here  into  the  mountains  to  find  the 
dominion  of  myself,  that  I  should  meet  with  you? 
Do  you  think  I  should  have  come  if  I  had?" 

"What  difference  do  I  make?"  she  whispered. 

He  stood  up  from  his  seat  by  the  fire  and  walked 
again  to  the  door,  flinging  it  wide  open,  upper  and 
lower  half  of  it,  so  that  the  sunlight  was  cut  in  one 
square  patch  of  gold  upon  the  floor. 

"Come  out  and  walk,"  he  said,  forcing  his  voice 
to  quietness.  "Let's  walk  up  there  to  where  that 

182 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

buzzard  is  circling  high  above  the  peak.  All  thought 
runs  to  despotism  in  cramped  spaces  like  this  room. 
Come  with  me,  high  up  above  all  this.  Then  you'll 
understand." 

She  went  obediently  to  his  side  and  by  his  side 
walked  up  the  untrodden  paths  until  they  stood 
where  even  the  stone-chats  would  not  follow  and 
far  below  them  the  larks  rose  out  of  the  heather 
soaring  to  reach  them  where  they  were. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TIMES  without  number  she  had  been  in  the 
mountains  of  Europe,  altitudes  beside  which, 
in  comparison,  this  Knockshunahallion  was 
a  little  hill,  yet  never  did  it  seem  to  her  she  had  been 
so  high  above  the  world  as  then. 

Clear  as  was  the  day,  there  were  veiling  clouds, 
thin  scarfs  of  mist  that  passed  beneath  them,  now 
hiding  the  far-off  valleys,  now  revealing  them  in  the 
glamour  of  the  sun.  The  little  cabins  and  the  tiny 
farms  were  like  scraps  of  white  paper,  the  faintly 
distinguishable  trail  of  life  in  a  paper  chase  of  the 
giants.  From  those  heights  she  saw  the  world  with 
new  eyes  and,  however  dimly,  yet  there  in  the  faint 
consciousness  of  her  mind  came  the  suspicion  of 
what  he  learnt  in  his  solitude. 

Far  away  beyond  the  valley  and  across  the  moors 
a  thick  cluster  of  trees  marked  the  direction  of  Bally- 
saggartmore  on  that  living  map  of  green.  She 
touched  his  arm  and  stretched  out  her  hand,  point- 
ing, it  seemed  to  her,  across  the  continent,  and  said, 
"That's  where  I  live." 

His  eyes  went  out  to  the  line  of  light  winding 
through  the  trees.  This  was  the  Blackwater,  thread- 
ing emeralds  on  a  string  of  gold. 

These  were  the  first  words  which  had  been  spoken 
since  they  had  left  his  cabin.  Then  silence  sur- 

184 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

rounded  them  again,  a  stillness  that  was  a  tangible 
thing,  a  quiet  like  the  hush  of  children,  waiting  with 
minds  on  tiptoe  for  a  story. 

She  stood  beside  him,  conscious  of  the  wish  to  put 
her  arm  in  his,  moved  by  some  sense  of  gratitude  for 
the  world  he  showed  her.  Once  her  hand  moved, 
tentative  to  do  the  thing  that  she  desired,  but  re- 
membrance of  his  wish  that  she  had  never  come, 
the  knowledge  of  the  struggle  that  still  was  a  tumult 
in  his  mind,  dropped  it  again  in  generosity  to  her 
side. 

"I  must  make  him  forget  that  I  am  here  at  all," 
she  told  herself.  By  that  means  only,  she  knew  she 
might  find  leave  to  come  again.  This  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  had  ever  subdued  the  egotism 
of  her  personality.  He  was  the  first  man  who  had 
wakened  in  her  that  instinct  of  passive  subordina- 
tion, the  surest  weapon  Nature  can  give  into  a 
woman's  hands.  So  it  was  not  she  who  would  break 
the  silence  now.  The  wind  played  gently  through 
her  hair,  a  chill  wind  as  it  came  across  the  shadows 
of  the  mountains  which  even  the  open  sunshine  could 
not  wholly  warm  again.  Still  she  did  not  speak. 

She  listened,  as  she  knew  he  was  listening,  to  the 
sounds  of  the  world  that  rose  so  faintly  to  their 
ears.  The  song  of  a  lark,  the  intermittent  cry  of  the 
buzzard  wheeling  over  their  heads,  the  burring  mur- 
mur of  the  mountain  streams  that  tumbled  like  a 
shower  of  crystals,  shining  white  into  the  valley's 
lap,  these  were  all  mingled  into  a  whispering  song 
the  depth  of  air  had  muted  as  it  came  to  them.  But 

185 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

it  was  more  his  listening  she  listened  to  than  the 
sounds  themselves. 

Yet  she  too  could  feel  now  the  dwindling  paltri- 
ness of  the  common  life  in  such  an  altitude  as  that; 
knew  what  he  meant  when  he  had  told  her  how  in 
the  first  few  months  of  his  solitude  he  had  striven 
against  the  fear  of  loneliness  and  dreaded  the  anger 
of  the  mountain  storms. 

"Then,"  he  had  said,  "as  the  days  went  by  and 
I  had  shaken  off  the  weight  of  life  we  carry  on  our 
shoulders,  then  I  heard  such  music  in  the  storms  at 
night,  as  no  orchestra  of  a  thousand  instruments 
could  ever  play." 

Standing  there  with  him  then,  she  could  believe 
how  that  was  true,  yet  thought  with  a  clinging  pleas- 
ure of  the  warm  room  in  which  at  such  times  she  hid 
herself,  pulling  the  heavy  curtains  and  shutting  out 
the  importunate  agonies  of  the  wind.  That  was 
what  he  would  call  the  despotism  of  life.  Slowly 
she  was  beginning  to  know  that  his  was  the  higher 
truth,  but  came  no  nearer  to  departure  from  her 
own.  For  even  then,  in  a  sudden  moment  of  emo- 
tional belief,  she  said, 

"Up  here,  I  think  I  could  almost  believe  in 
faeries." 

And  forgetting  all  the  generous  intentions  of  her 
mind  but  those  few  moments  ago,  she  slipped  her 
arm  impulsively,  warm  and  close  in  his.  Only  when 
she  shivered  did  she  remember  what  she  had  done, 
but  once  there  and  feeling  the  warmth  of  it,  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  take  it  away.  If  that 

186 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

were  the  slavery  of  life,  it  was,  as  he  had  said,  a 
pleasant  servitude.  High  though  his  truth  might 
be,  she  needed  no  loftier  exaltation  than  that  which 
she  already  had. 

It  may  have  been  a  thought  for  her,  for  though  he 
shivered  when  her  arm  touched  his,  he  did  not  move 
away. 

"This  is  May  Eve,"  he  said — "the  night  the  fae- 
ries ride  out  and  dance  and  play  their  music  in  all  the 
nooks  and  crevices  of  these  hills.  Any  stranger 
that  knocks  at  a  cottage  door  to-night,  if  they  should 
unbolt  the  latch,  will  be  faerie  man.  or  woman  to, 
those  within.  They  will  shut  the  door  against  him 
or  bid  him  enter  according  to  the  fear  and  the  emo- 
tions in  their  hearts." 

Her  own  belief  which  was  emotional  became  doubt 
again  when  she  saw  the  deeper  belief  in  him.  So 
long  had  she  regarded  this  belief  in  faeries  to  be  a 
country  superstition,  declaring  her  faith  in  them  only 
in  moments  of  childish  exhilaration,  that  when  she 
came  to  the  real  faith  such  as  his,  all  that  exhilara- 
tion left  her  for  the  reasoned  doubt  again. 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  questioning  with  her 
own  but  still  keeping  hold  upon  his  arm. 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  say,"  she  murmured, 
"that  faeries  do  come  to  people's  doors;  that  there 
are  people  who  actually  see  them,  speak  with  them, 
give  them  shelter  or  turn  them  away?  Surely  isn't 
it  all  a  superstition?  Isn't  it  the  unbalanced  rea- 
son of  a  terrible  ignorance  that  makes  people  see 
these  things?" 

13  187 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Those  are  only  words,"  he  answered  her.  "Ig- 
norance, superstition,  they  are  only  words  with  rela- 
tive meanings.  You  are  ignorant  of  the  ways  of 
the  world,  but  you  may  have  great  knowledge  of  the 
ways  of  God;  you  are  ignorant  of  the  meaning  and 
beauties  of  music  but  none  may  know  better  than  you 
what  the  curlew  means  when  he  cries  through  the 
mist  across  the  lonely  bogland.  None  better  than 
you  may  hear  the  music  in  his  mournful  note.  You 
are  utterly  ignorant  of  the  emotions  that  fret  and 
drive  your  soul,  but  none  may  know  better  than  you 
the  power  of  faeries  in  the  solitary  corners  of  the 
world.  In  a  few  hours  when  the  evening  falls  I 
will  bring  you  down  into  the  valley  and  show  you 
one  who  knows  nothing  of  the  fatal  emotions  that 
beset  her  but  whose  ears  hear  plainer  than  ours  the 
sound  of  faerie  music  which  is  the  very  spirit  of  the 
Fate  that  hangs  about  her.  Will  you  come  ?" 

"Shall  I  be  afraid?"  she  asked. 

"Fear  is  worse  than  ignorance,"  said  he.  "Will 
you  come?" 

She  closed  her  fingers  on  his  arm  and  bent  her 
head. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  the  sun  was  falling  behind  Kilworth, 
and  as  the  dropping  light  of  it  cast  those 
first,  soft,  long  rays  of  the  glowing  gold 
of  evening  along  the  green  banks  of  the  Duag  val- 
ley, Anthony  Sorel  brought  her  down  the  mountain 
side  to  Gorteeshall.    Then  the  shadows  were  length- 
ening— lengthening  into  giant  arms  that  stretched 
lingeringly  over  the  breast  of  the  earth  before  it  fell 
asleep. 

"I  will  show  you  an  adventure  where  the  faeries 
are  concerned,"  he  had  said  and  when  below  them 
the  valley  spread  out  its  fields  of  green,  bound  with 
that  twisting  ribbon  of  the  river  Duag,  he  pointed 
to  a  white-washed  cottage  from  which  the  blue  smoke 
rose  above  the  thatch  in  one  straight  column  to  the 
evening  sky. 

"There,"  he  said,  touching  her  arm,  so  that  she 
stood  beside  him — "there  in  that  cottage  lives  a  girl 
with  more  beauty  in  her  face  than  they  have  ever 
seen  in  these  mountains  for  many  a  day." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly. 

"Do  you  think  she's  beautiful?"  she  asked. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  see  that  look;  certainly  he 
never  knew  its  meaning. 

"I  think  her  beautiful — yes,"  he  replied.  "I 
think  sometimes  it  is  the  most  beautiful  face  I've 

189 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

ever  seen.  Often  I've  stood  watching  her  at  the 
cross  roads  where  she  used  to  dance  with  the  other 
girls  and  young  men  about.  They  know  little  of 
the  grace  of  dancing,  which  after  all  is  only  a  grace 
of  the  body  not  a  grace  of  mind.  It's  their  minds 
have  grace.  But  she  had  elegance  of  movement 
too." 

"You  were  attracted  to  her?"  she  said,  half  in 
question,  half  in  the  way  women  make  statements 
of  those  things  that  women  know. 

He  took  no  notice  of  that  and  continued  speaking. 
She  could  not  be  sure  if  it  were  that  he  had  avoided 
answering  or  if  it  were  simply  that  he  had  not  heard. 

"What  came  to  her,"  he  went  on,  "happened 
about  two  weeks  ago,  over  there  at  the  spot  where 
you  see  those  roads  cross  like  ropes  tying  the  fields 
together.  She  says  for  some  moments,  as  the  light 
of  the  evening  was  dying  she  heard  music  other 
than  that  which  the  old  man  was  playing  for  the 
dancing  on  his  fiddle.  Her  feet  got  caught  in  it, 
she  said,  so  that  she  could  not  keep  time  with  the 
fiddler's  music.  Indeed  the  young  man  who  was 
dancing  with  her  at  the  time  assured  me  that  she 
was  all  out  of  step — not  a  fault  she  could  ever  be 
accused  of.  Then,  as  the  darkness  came  on,  she 
saw  a  light  in  the  field  that  moved  in  and  out  amongst 
the  cows  that  were  grazing  there.  It  was  not  curi- 
osity she  felt,  she  told  me,  but,  so  well  as  I  can 
gather,  an  irresistible  impulse  that  induced  her  to 
follow  it.  She  left  the  dancing  and  went  into  the 
field  and  the  light  danced  before  her,  always  some 

190 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

few  yards  away.  It  must  have  dazzled  her  eyes 
and  so  preoccupied  her  that  she  could  not  see  where 
she  was  going,  for  she  fell  down  a  gravel  pit  that 
had  been  dug  a  few  days  before  for  some  purpose 
or  other  and,  falling,  she  broke  her  leg.  At  first, 
she  said  she  felt  no  pain.  She  was  only  distressed 
because  the  light  was  no  longer  visible.  But  after 
a  time,  when  she  heard  an  end  to  the  music  at  the 
cross  roads,  the  pain  became  almost  unbearable.  She 
cried  out  and  so  it  was  they  found  her  lying  there. 
There  she  is  now,  in  a  bed  in  that  cottage  where  her 
mother  lives  with  her  and  when  I've  told  you  all 
about  her,  I'll  take  you  down  there.  You  shall  see 
her.  You  shall  see  the  concerns  of  faeries." 

"Was  it  faerie  music  then?  Was  it  a  light  of  the 
faeries  too?" 

She  asked  now  with  the  voice  of  one  eager  to  be- 
lieve. The  way  he  spoke  conquered  her  incredu- 
lity. There  was  a  spell  in  the  strange  music  of  his 
voice ;  she  felt  it  growing  upon  her  as  a  hidden  mo- 
tive in  a  symphony  steals  into  the  consciousness  of 
the  mind. 

"That  is  what  they  say,"  he  replied — "what  they 
believe.  Youth  and  beauty  are  ever  in  danger  of 
being  taken  by  the  faeries  and  the  old  woman,  her 
mother,  so  they  tell,  has  speech  with  them.  The 
people  about  here  have  no  love  of  passing  her  cot- 
tage after  dark.  But  listen  to  what  happens  now. 
Mary's  leg  is  so  badly  broken  that  the  doctor 
from  Clogheen  has  said  that  it  must  be  amputated 
or  she  is  sure  to  come  by  her  death.  He  is  not  cer- 

191 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

tain  enough  of  his  skill  to  guarantee  that  even  this 
will  save  her  life  though  he  knows  it  is  the  only 
possible  thing  to  do.  But  there  is  a  spell  upon  Mary 
ever  since  she  heard  that  music  and  saw  that  light. 
She  declares  she  will  not  have  her  beauty  spoilt. 
The  doctor  has  tried  to  insist  that  the  amputation 
must  be  made,  whereupon  Mary's  mother  has  de- 
creed that  she  will  prosecute  him  if  the  operation 
is  not  successful.  This  has  frightened  him.  He  has 
not  the  courage  of  his  skill  to  persevere  and  there 
she  lies  on  a  bed  of  terrible  suffering  in  that  cot- 
tage, listening  to  the  music  she  still  hears  and 
doomed  to  die,  the  doctor  tells  me.  Nothing  can 
possibly  save  her.  That  is  how  the  faeries  have 
concerned  themselves  with  Mary  Coyne." 

She  stood  there  beside  him  on  the  slope  of  the 
mountain,  looking  now  at  the  cottage  with  its  col- 
umn of  dim  blue  smoke,  now  at  his  face,  set  across 
the  far  line  of  the  valley,  now  at  the  cottage  again. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask  him  if  he  believed 
the  story  he  had  just  told  her,  but,  as  they  went  on 
again  down  the  hillside,  she  asked  him,  with  that 
same  note  of  tentative  restraint  in  her  voice,  what  he 
understood  of  it  all. 

"She  has  the  emotions  of  her  own  beauty,"  he 
said.  "They  are  bringing  her  death.  That  is  how 
these  mountain  people  come  near  the  truth.  They 
have  the  power  of  vision  to  see  the  symbols  of  their 
own  emotions.  Her  beauty  is  her  own  destruction. 
I  have  seen  that  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  me." 

In  the  blindness  of  her  mind,  she  understood  his 
192 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

answer,  though  none  of  it  was  clear  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  reason. 

The  music  that  Mary  Coyne  had  heard  in  her 
ears,  the  dancing,  luring  light  she  had  seen,  these 
were  symbols  of  her  own  fatal  emotions.  This  was 
what  Anna  Quartermaine  dimly  divined  he  must 
mean,  but  could  not  have  put  it  into  words  and  so 
kept  silence  as  she  walked  beside  him.  Whether 
he  thought  the  light  and  the  music  were  real  things 
of  faerie  she  could  not  have  said.  She  could  not 
have  been  assured  that  she  did  not  believe  them 
real  herself. 

The  golden  light  of  the  evening  had  died  through 
purple  grays  to  darkness  as  they  reached  the  cot- 
tage door.  Anthony  Sorel  knocked  upon  the  panel 
and,  after  a  few  minutes,  the  upper  half  was  opened, 
when  they  could  see  an  old  woman,  with  short  gray 
hair  clipped  close  around  her  neck,  looking  like  a 
halo  about  her  pale  face  with  its  sharp  and  almost 
aristocratic  features.  It  was  not  difficult  to  see  that 
she  had  been  beautiful  once  herself.  But  it  was 
her  eyes  more  than  her  beauty  which,  in  that  first 
moment,  drew  all  the  attention  of  Anna  Quarter- 
maine. 

With  a  glance  too  swift  almost  to  be  seen,  the  old 
woman  had  recognized  Anthony  Sorel  and  then  her 
gaze  had  fallen  upon  his  companion.  So  Anna 
Quartermaine  could  fully  see  her  eyes,  the  vivid 
penetration  of  them,  but  lit  with  no  ordinary  light 
of  reason  or  curiosity.  Indeed  they  seemed  to  be 
searching  for  thoughts  and  substances  which  were 

193 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

beyond  the  mind  to  comprehend.  Could  that  look 
have  been  translated  into  words,  to  Anna  Quar- 
termaine  it  must  have  been  some  foreign  tongue  she 
could  not  understand. 

Anthony  Sorel  bid  her  good  evening.  At  the 
sound  of  his  voice  she  withdrew  the  gaze  of  her 
eyes,  opened  the  lower  part  of  the  door  and  made 
way  for  them  to  enter. 

It  was  a  cottage  just  as  any  other  you  will  see  in 
the  south  of  Ireland.  One  further  room,  a  bed- 
room, there  was,  beyond  the  kitchen  into  which  they 
came.  The  door  of  it  was  open.  There  was  the 
bed  on  which  Mary  Coyne  lay  dying.  Anthony 
Sorel  walked  quietly  into  the  room  and  stood  beside 
her.  Anna  Quartermaine  followed  him.  For  an 
instant  she  had  half  turned,  hesitating,  but  with  a 
quick  understanding,  Mrs.  Coyne  had  urged  her, 
muttering  she  was  welcome. 

So  she  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  untidy  bed,  look- 
ing down  at  the  face  on  the  crumpled  pillow.  It 
was  indeed,  even  in  those  moments,  intensely  beauti- 
ful, so  beautiful  that  she  did  not  even  in  her  mind's 
eye  need  to  re-dress  the  disordered  hair  or  think 
how  much  improvement  she  could  make  in  it  with 
the  addition  of  faintest  color  to  the  cheeks.  For 
as  well  as  beauty  there  was  in  her  eyes  the  strange 
and  wild  exhilaration  of  death,  as  if  it  were  a  lover 
about  to  take  her  for  the  first  time  into  the  pas- 
sionate embrace  of  his  arms.  The  look  of  expec- 
tancy was  there  and,  shy  in  the  anticipation  of  it, 
she  almost  held  her  breath. 

194 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Instinctively  she  looked  at  Anthony  Sorel.  His 
eyes  were  steady  and  emotionless  as  though  he  knew 
of  the  approach  of  death  and  heard  its  footsteps 
in  the  room  beyond.  She  sought  for  the  look  of  ad- 
miration she  expected  or  for  that  agony  which  must 
be  seen  in  his  eyes  as  a  man  gazes  upon  beauty  that 
he  loves  when  it  joins  hands  with  death.  But  no 
such  expressions  were  there.  His  face  was  calm. 
His  eyes  bent  steadily  on  those  of  Mary  Coyne 
and  she  looked  up  at  him  as  though  saying,  "Am  I 
not  beautiful,  even  more  beautiful  so  near  to  death?"" 

"Is  the  music  still  playing  for  you,  Mary?"  he 
asked  presently. 

"I  heard  it  last  night,"  she  said,  "an'  it  callin' 
me  through  the  window  beyond,  the  way  I'd  be  set- 
tin'  me  foot  to  ut  if  the  leg  wasn't  broken  on  me." 

"What  was  it  like?" 

"Like  the  strings  of  a  fiddle  that  would  be  made 
of  woman's  hair  an'  weren't  all  the  sorrows  of  the 
world  in  ut  like  the  wind  that  scatters  the  thistle- 
down and  sobs  under  the  warp  of  the  old  door?" 

"Do  you  feel  any  better  in  yourself?"  he  asked 
her  then. 

She  turned  over  with  much  pain  upon  her  side 
and  moaned  softly  as  she  did  so. 

"I  do  not,"  said  she,  "an'  if  death  is  to  be  comin' 
to  me,  wouldn't  it  come  swift  in  the  night  while  I'd 
be  hearin'  the  music,  the  way  I'd  be  havin'  all  the 
beauty  I  had  with  me  again  an'  I  not  cramped  here 
on  the  bed  like  an  old  hag  lettin'  the  last  gasps  out 
of  her." 

195 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  turned  away  from  the  bedside  and  motioning 
to  Mrs.  Coyne  she  followed  him  with  Anna  Quarter- 
maine  into  the  other  room.  When  he  had  closed 
the  door  of  the  bedroom,  he  returned  and  stood  be- 
side the  fire. 

"Mary  will  die,"  said  he  to  the  old  woman,  "and 
'twill  be  her  beauty  killed  her." 

Mrs.  Coyne  wrung  her  hands  but  there  were  no 
tears  in  her  eyes.  She  wrung  her  hands  in  a  hard 
passion  of  grief. 

"Haven't  they  set  their  spell  on  her,"  she  cried, 
"and  what  could  I  be  doing  for  the  girl  if  they've 
put  their  minds  on  takin'  her!" 

"Insist  on  the  doctor  doing  his  operation,"  he 
replied  quietly.  "That  is  the  only  hope  of  saving 
her.  Any  day,  any  moment  it  may  be  too  late. 
Come,  come — we  all  know  there  are  faeries  and  this 
is  the  work  of  faeries  no  doubt — but  people  say  you 
have  the  power  to  deal  with  them.  If  she  does  lose 
her  beauty  and  has  to  be  walking  the  world  with 
crutches  to  help  her,  isn't  that  better  than  to  be  los- 
ing her?" 

Anna  Quartermaine  listened  but  all  her  senses 
were  now  faint  and  subdued  in  her  as  though  she 
breathed  an  atmosphere  heavy  with  sleep.  The 
sound  of  his  voice  was  like  a  far  note  continuous  in 
her  ears,  but  it  was  with  difficulty  she  could  reason 
what  he  said.  Did  he  know  then,  she  asked  herself, 
did  he  know  there  were  faeries  or  was  his  speech 
only  to  humor  the  woman?  She  looked  up  at  him 
standing  there  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  strength 

196 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

and  calmness  of  his  mind  was  stronger  than  all  the 
common  power  of  men.  This  was  more  than  the 
mere  adventure  of  Romance  she  had  sought  for,  to 
pass  the  hours  of  Spring  into  the  long  days  of  Sum- 
mer. Her  heart  was  not  beating  quickly,  but  the 
heavy  throb  of  it  was  loud  like  a  hammer  in  her 
pulse. 

Had  there  been  a  sign  of  his  admiration  for  that 
dying  girl  within  she  would  have  known  he  was  yet 
the  same  as  other  men.  But  no  such  sign  had  there 
been.  He  had  spoken  of  her  beauty;  he  had  looked 
at  it  as  though  it  were  a  flower  he  had  found  on  the 
mountainside — a  thing  he  would  resist  the  pluck- 
ing to  wear  for  his  own  adornment.  Even  when 
Mrs.  Coyne  returned  her  answer  to  his  urging,  Anna 
Quartermaine  kept  her  eyes  set  on  Anthony  Sorel's 
face,  hearing,  only  as  if  it  were  in  the  distance,  what 
she  said. 

"Why  would  I  be  lettin'  the  doctor  use  his  knife 
to  her,"  she  began.  "Isn't  she  a  sick  enough  one  as 
it  is?  Shure,  wouldn't  they  take  the  leg  away  wid 
them  to  be  doing  tricks  wid  it  there  in  Clogheen, 
the  way  they  bought  Tim  Coughlan's  body  for  the 
hospital  in  Dublin  an'  paid  his  woman  two  pounds 
for  it  an'  she  drinkin'  every  penny  of  it  to  drown 
the  shame  it  brought  her?  Glory  be  to  the  Almighty 
God,  wouldn't  I  sooner  see  herself  goin'  wid  the 
faeries,  than  standin'  up  on  the  last  day  wid  one  leg 
to  her  an'  she  shamed  of  her  beauty  before  God 
Himself!" 

In  this  strain,  slowly  working  upon  her  own  un- 
197 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

bridled  emotions,  it  seemed  she  talked  without  .end- 
ing and  all  the  while  Anna  Quartermaine  watched 
Anthony  Sorel's  face.  It  was  full  of  a  sensitive  mo- 
bility, and  to  all  that  the  old  woman  said,  the  expres- 
sion of  his  lips  and  eyes  reflected  her  words  as  one 
plays  upon  some  instrument  his  hand  was  born  to. 

Then  gradually  in  the  growing  passion  of  her 
words,  the  note  in  the  old  woman's  voice  became  a 
note  of  frenzy.  At  the  sound  of  it,  but  with  no  sense 
of  fear,  Anna  Quartermaine  turned  to  look  at  her. 
Saliva  was  gathered  in  a  froth  of  bubbles  at  the  cor- 
ners of  her  wrinkled  mouth,  her  eyes  were  flashing 
with  the  daring  confidence  of  prophecy.  They  were 
fixed  upon  Anthony  Sorel's  face  as  if  with  just  the 
light  in  them  she  would  burn  out  his  soul. 

It  was  not  till  then  that  a  consciousness  of  fear 
took  the  mind  of  Anna  Quartermaine.  With  a  sud- 
den movement,  she  caught  Anthony  Sorel's  hand 
and  held  it  fast.  , 

"Let  us  go,"  she  whispered — "please  let  us  go." 

For  swiftly  it  had  come  to  her  mind  that  the  old 
woman  was  mad.  It  was  no  uncommon  thing 
amongst  those  people  with  the  loneliness  of  their 
lives  and  hers  was  not  an  unnatural  dread  of  it. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  whispered  again  and  stood  up 
beside  him. 

"You've  nothing  to  fear,"  he  replied  quietly  and 
took  a  closer  hold  upon  her  hand.  "Let  her  go  on, 
she  speaks  with  authority." 

"An'  wouldn't  I  speak  well  with  the  gift  of 
sight,"  she  cried,  "an'  on  this  night  when  the  hosts 

198 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  them  do  be  ridin'  out  with  their  horses  gallopm 
thunder  over  the  heather!  Wouldn't  I  know  ye  well 
as  ye  sthand  there,  wouldn't  I  know  ye  well  to  be 
eaten  up  with  wisdom  an'  still  not  be  wise,  to  be  ever 
watching  with  yeer  quiet  eyes  an'  still  be  blind,  to 
be  listenin'  the  way  of  a  dog  an'  he  huntin'  an'  still 
be  deaf?  I  would  indeed !  Is  it  that  sort  of  wisdom 
ye'd  be  preachin'  to  herself  in  there?  Yirra,  'tis  not 
that  sort  of  wisdom  will  be  sthandin'  to  ye  an'  ye 
taken  by  the  faeries  yeerself  where  the  roads  are 
crossed  an'  the  night  comes  batterin'  with  the  wind 
across  the  mountains  at  yeer  little  door.  Hear  what 
I  say,  young  man,  before  ye  preach  the  cunnin'  ways 
of  thim  doctors  to  me,  for  isn't  there  the  speech 
of  knowledge  in  me  this  night  an'  wouldn't  I 
be  walkin'  the  hills  with  me  two  feet  bare  on  me 
before  I'd  know  the  words  again  I'd  be  sayin'  to 
ye  now?" 

With  a  sudden  movement  and  still  in  her  frenzy, 
she  turned  her  eyes  on  Anna  Quartermaine  who  in- 
voluntarily clung  the  closer  to  Anthony  Sorel's  side. 

"Who  are  ye?"  she  asked.  "Who  are  ye,  comin' 
with  yeer  own  beauty  to  spy  out  the  face  of  herself 
beyond  in  the  room  on  her  little  bed?" 

Knowing  it  was  the  truth,  Anna  Quartermaine 
shuddered,  fearing  the  things  she  still  might  say. 

"I  brought  this  lady,"  Anthony  Sorel  replied. 
"She  did  not  come  of  herself.  I  brought  her.  Your 
sight  is  failing  you.  Your  moment  is  going.  Get 
back  to  your  daughter  and  do  what  I  advise  you 
or  send  for  the  priest  if  you  need  him." 

199 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

At  that  she  beat  her  hands  upon  her  head  and 
stamped  her  foot  upon  the  hard  mud  floor. 

"The  sight  is  not  gone  from  me!"  she  cried. 
"Haven't  I  vision  now  can  see  the  comin'  of  the  days, 
an'  the  break  of  mornin'  when  death  will  be  comin' 
to  herself  sthandin'  there  an'  she  dreamin'  the  world 
away  of  a  lover  with  his  arms  around  the  soft  white 
breast  of  her.  Let  ye  go  out  the  both  of  ye  an' 
dare  the  faeries  that  do  be  dancin'  everywhere  this 
night.  'Tis  ye  have  wisdom  an'  are  still  not  wise 
— 'tis  ye  look  strainin'  with  yeer  eyes  an'  cannot 


see." 


This  was  the  last  effort  of  her  speech.  As  though 
a  hand  had  been  pressed  against  her  lips  she  stopped 
suddenly  in  speaking;  as  though  some  hidden  power 
had  seized  her,  she  dropped  with  her  frenzy  spent 
upon  the  floor. 

Without  a  word  Anthony  Sorel  lifted  her  in  his 
arms  and  carried  her  to  her  bed  in  the  other  room. 
When  he  came  back,  Anna  Quartermaine  could  see 
that  his  face  was  white.  Indeed,  she  felt  the  blood- 
lessness  in  her  own.  Then  he  took  her  arm  and  led 
her  to  the  door.  They  passed  out  into  the  dark- 
ness that  the  moon  was  faintly  glimmering  with 
light.  He  fastened  the  latch  and  so  they  turned  up 
the  mountainside  again.  For  a  long  while  he  spoke 
no  word  and  then  he  said, 

"Mary  .Coyne  will  die  this  night." 

After  that  between  them  nothing  else  was  said 
until  he  set  her  on  the  road  to  Ballysaggartmore. 


CHAPTER   X 

IT  was  as  he  walked  back  across  the  moors  and 
up  the  half-trodden  pathways  again  into  the 
mountains  that  Anthony  Sorel  knew  some 
change  had  come  upon  him  that  day. 

At  first  he  was  slow  to  realize  what  it  was  or  how 
it  had  happened.  Ideas  moved  strangely  in  his 
mind  but  he  could  not  trace  their  passage,  or  know 
whence  they  had  come.  It  was  long  he  found  the 
way  back  to  his  cabin  and  his  eyes  that  had  grown 
so  accustomed  to  those  gray  lights  before  the  moon 
had  risen  were  now  restless  because  everything 
seemed  dark.  The  far  edges  of  the  hills  cut  sharp 
metallic  lines  against  the  purple  sky;  the  snipe  that 
rose  with  a  quick  cry  and  a  rush  of  wings  out  of  the 
bracken  as  he  crossed  the  moor  set  the  heart  beat- 
ing suddenly  within  him.  It  seemed  a  vast  world, 
that  black  space  into  which  it  flung  itself  as  it  dis- 
appeared in  search  of  another  bed  to  sleep  in  undis- 
turbed. 

When  he  reached  his  cabin,  he  opened  the  door 
and  went  in,  for  long  minutes  standing  there  with 
the  catch  still  in  his  hand  looking  at  the  chair  Anna 
Quartermaine  had  occupied.  There  it  remained, 
turned  to  the  fire,  just  where  she  had  sat  and  lis- 
tened to  the  wandering  story  he  had  told  her.  With 
the  long  habits  of  solitude,  his  mind  drifted  with- 

201 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

out  direction  in  countless  channels.  Then  his  eyes 
were  looking  inwards,  as  when  a  man  is  'caught 
between  the  worlds  of  belief  and  imagination. 

At  last,  closing  the  door,  with  an  abstracted  care, 
he  set  the  room  to  rights,  yet  still  was  restless,  with 
no  thought  of  sleep.  The  fire  was  burnt  out  to  the 
dim  glow  behind  white  ashes.  Another  night  he 
would  have  got  to  his  bed,  letting  it  die  and  be  bur- 
ied in  its  own  cold  embers;  but  now  he  sat  beside  the 
bellows-wheel  and  blew  the  ashes  into  a  flame  of 
more  cheerful  companionship.  Even  then  there 
passed  an  hour  by  before  he  lay  himself  down  with 
eyes  turned  to  the  wall,  where  the  firelights  danced 
until  it  seemed  they  were  a  ring  of  the  children  of 
faerie  dancing  around  him,  nearer  and  nearer  until 
their  little  feet  had  closed  his  eyes. 

In  the  morning  the  sun  wakened  him  and  the 
knowledge  of  that  change  was  with  him  still.  It  was 
not  that  he  was  watching  the  movements  of  his  mind, 
for  the  change  seemed  without  him,  rather  than 
within.  He  looked  around  the  room  of  his  cabin 
and  was  conscious  of  the  four  walls  that  contained 
it.  As  though  he  were  an  onlooker  from  some 
more  distant  place,  he  stood  aside  and  could  see 
himself  living  there  alone,  from  one  day,  from  one 
night  to  another,  through  the  seasons,  through  the 
years — always  alone. 

What  had  brought  that  change  in  him?  He  was 
too  ignorant  of  himself  to  tell.  It  was  not  in  his 
emotions,  for  the  sensation  all  through  his  body, 
even  to  his  mind,  was  as  if  he  moved,  saw,  felt,  all 

202 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

in  a  trance.  Yet  at  moments  his  heart  beat  quickly 
as  when  he  wondered  to  himself  why  Anna  Quar- 
termaine  had  come  across  the  moors  and  up 
those  mountain  paths  to  see  the  place  in  which  he 
lived. 

He  blamed  himself  for  talking  as  he  did;  for  let- 
ting his  mind  be  so  disturbed  with  thoughts  of  her. 
Yet  continually  he  was  knowing  that  through  all  he 
had  said,  she  had  made  him  feel  the  higher  inten- 
tions of  his  soul's  endeavor.  As  her  face  stood  there 
in  his  memory,  for  not  one  feature  needed  the  call- 
ing to  his  mind,  he  knew  that,  even  in  her  gentle 
disbelief,  she  had  brought  strength  and  vigor  to 
his  loftiest  purpose. 

And  so  his  thoughts  were  cause  as  the  day  wore 
on,  no  longer  for  him  to  regard  himself  with  blame, 
but  a  growing  joy  that  now  he  could  look  into  a 
woman's  eyes  without  the  tumult  of  emotion  he  had 
known  before,  but  binding  the  uplifting  of  his  spirit 
to  the  noblest  of  ideals. 

This,  in  those  two  long  years,  was  the  first  test  of 
what  solitude  and  fasting  of  his  body  had  brought 
him.  So  it  was  not  the  sudden  change  he  had  found, 
but  the  gradual  transformation  she  had  discovered 
for  him  in  himself.  This  was  what  indeed  he  had 
become,  for  now  he  knew  his  mind  was  calm  above 
the  distress  and  hunger  of  desire.  Never  might  he 
see  her  again  and  yet  the  beauty  his  imagination 
made  in  her,  far  passed  the  deliberate  beauty  in  her 
face.  So  he  knew  a  man  might  love  a  woman,  when 
earthly  beauty  had  long  left  her  and  no  distressing 
14  203 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

hand  of  Death  could  rob  her  of  the  beauty  that  he 
saw. 

In  an  ecstasy  at  the  thought  that  so  he  too  might 
love  Anna  Quartermaine,  he  threw  open  his  cabin 
'door,  strode  out  into  the  light  of  day  and  climbed 
through  the  banks  of  sunshine  to  the  peaks  where 
they  had  stood  together. 

"There's  where  I  live,"  she  had  said  and  still  he 
could  see  the  whiteness  of  her  hand  that  looked  so 
small  and  yet  so  strong  to  point  across  the  world  be- 
neath them. 

That  was  where  she  lived  and  there,  seating  him- 
self on  the  tough  mountain  grass,  he  turned  his  eyes 
and  gave  that  spirit  he  had  written  of,  to  a  bird  in 
flight,  that  bore  him  upwards  and  upwards  until 
his  soul  leaned  out  and  found  such  beauty  in  these 
new-found  thoughts  of  her,  as  made  death  seem  a 
little  thing  beside. 

Each  day  he  went  there  to  the  summit  of  Knock- 
shunahallion  and  now  was  spurred  to  energies  his 
mind  had  never  known  for  all  the  days  of  those 
two  solitary  years.  Lying  out  there,  sometimes  the 
peak  an  island  alone  above  the  sunny  mists  that 
drifted  past  below,  he  wrote  his  songs  and  spoke 
them  out  as  though  she  in  her  valley  could  hear  his 
voice  across  the  moors. 

A  day  will  rise  in  the  golden  dawn, 
When  the  mists  swim  into  the  sea  of  morn, 
And  the  naked  sun  under  Knocknashoul 
Will  steep  his  limbs  in  the  mountain  pool — 
On  such  a  day  will  my  love  be  born. 
204 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

A  day  will  come,  though  the  days  are  late, 
When  I  hold  your  hand  as  those  that  wait 
With  bell  and  monstrance  and  Holy  Bread, 
Who  take  God's  cup  to  the  Altar  head 
And  lift  it  high  at  the  Holy  Gate. 

A  day  will  dawn  when  I  may  gaze 
Beyond  the  day  of  other  days, 
And  looking  deep  within  your  eyes 
Shall  find  the  world  were  ne'er  so  wise, 
Knowing  death  cannot  part  our  ways. 

This  he  wrote,  and  many  of  the  love  poems  com- 
piled in  that  one  book  of  songs  he  made. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day,  when  the  evening  drew 
in  about  him  and  he  saw  the  light  kindled  in  Mala- 
chi's  cottage  on  Crow  Hill,  that  he  gathered  all  the 
songs  he  had  written  and  came  down  the  mountain, 
leaping  over  the  bowlders  and  striding  heedlessly 
over  the  hidden  paths,  for  the  joy  of  life  that  was 
in  him. 

To  his  knocking  on  the  door,  Malachi  came  and 
let  him  in,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  drew 
out  the  chair  from  by  the  dresser  where  he  was  used 
to  sit  and  he  reading  his  songs  in  the  night-time. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  heard  them  all  and  had 
turned  the  tobacco  in  his  mouth  and  spat  three  times 
into  the  fire  that  Malachi  spoke. 

"Isn't  it  the  plovers  go  winding  over  the  fields 
and  the  moors,"  said  he,  "and  they  crying  out  their 
songs  on  the  windy  nights  till  they'd  be  finding  a 
mate  would  make  her  nest  wid  'em?  Yirra,  Glory 

205 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

be  to  God,  hadn't  I  hopes  of  ye  and  ye  makin'  yeer 
songs  out  of  the  wonders  of  the  western  world? 
And  now  'tis  herself,  and  didn't  I  see  her  and  she 
coming  out  of  great  places  in  Lismore  looking  for 
ye,  'tis  herself  has  set  the  spell  of  her  eyes  on  ye  the 
way  ye'll  be  swimming  the  waters  and  walking  the 
land  to  get  to  her.  And  won't  she  bring  the  silence 
into  yeer  voice  that  would  sing  like  a  blackbird  in 
a  thorn  bush  when  the  white  blossom  is  dhropping  to 
the  ground?  Won't  she  be  persuading  ye  'tis  the 
world  in  herself,  and  ye  looking  in  her  eyes  like  a 
young  calf  hungry  for  its  mother  and  all  the  strength 
in  ye  goin'  out  like  water  dhropping." 

He  put  away  the  verses  he  had  gathered  and 
swore  his  oath  to  Malachi  that  it  was  not  so. 

"Is  it  the  way  ye'll  never  see  her  again?"  Malachi 
asked  and  his  voice  was  bitter  as  the  taste  of  aloes  is. 

He  could  not  give  promise  to  that.  He  had  left 
her  alone  on  the  road  that  night.  He  had  strode  off 
into  the  darkness  and  never  a  word  of  good-bye  had 
he  said  because  of  the  fear  of  the  thing  he  had 
learnt  that  day.  But  now  he  knew,  and  gave  his 
oath,  that  he  loved  almost  as  he  had  wished  for  love 
and  every  thought  in  him  was  above  desire  and  his 
heart  would  be  strong  until  that  day  when  he  could 
give  her  the  mastery  of  himself. 

"I  shall  say  good-bye,"  he  said,  "and  she  will 
know  why  I  go  and  the  day  when  I  shall  come  back. 
And  the  thought  of  her  will  be  about  me  through  the 
nights  and  I  shall  come  the  faster  through  her  to 
the  end  of  my  servitude." 

206 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Malachi  stirred  the  fire  with  an  iron  rod.  Then 
he  took  the  handle  of  the  bellows-wheel  in  his  hand 
and  for  long  moments  they  watched  the  sparks  gath- 
ering out  of  the  peat  and  flying  upwards  into  the 
black  heart  of  the  chimney. 

"Let  ye  not  be  goin'  down  from  the  mountains  to 
herself,"  said  he  at  last.  "That  word  of  parting  is 
not  a  word  the  women  will  listen  to.  Won't  it  set 
the  eyes  of  her  more  surely  on  ye  and  she  stretching 
out  her  hand  in  the  darkness  and  her  voice  crying 
out  to  ye  across  the  windy  places  of  the  hills?  For 
once  ye  say  that  word  to  a  woman  doesn't  it  put  the 
badness  in  her  blood  would  burn  and  starve  her  soul 
till  not  the  winds  nor  the  storms  nor  the  lonesome- 
ness  of  the  way  would  be  keepin'  her  from  ye?" 

"Still  I  must  go,"  Anthony  Sorel  replied,  "for 
then  I  shall  know  what  strength  there  is  in  me  and 
how  near  I  may  be  to  the  hour  when  I  can  love 
with  fulfillment  that  is  not  the  satisfied  hunger  of 
desire.  I  shall  say  good-bye  and  I  shall  come  away 
and  then  one  day  when  the  tumult  of  life  is  gone 
from  me,  I  shall  come  down  the  mountain  again  to 
find  her." 

"  'Tis  not  a  woman  will  wait  for  that,"  said 
Malachi. 

"Then  at  least  I  shall  know  I  have  loved,"  said 
Anthony  Sorel — "and  can  a  man  know  more?" 

Malachi  stood  up  and  beat  his  fist  upon  the  wall. 

"Ye  have  the  songs  and  all  the  beauty  of  the 
world,"  said  he,  "and  there  are  voices  in  the  silence 
of  the  hills  for  ye  and  there  are  truths  a  man  can't 

207 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

see  but  he  walks  about  from  one  place  to  another 
till  his  days  be  over  him  and  yeerself  would  go  to 
the  call  of  a  woman  an'  she  beckonin'  ye  to  the  white 
gentleness  of  her  breast  where  men  sleep  and  wake 
with  all  truth  gone  out  of  them.  Haven't  I  seen  it 
the  world  over  and  didn't  I  set  my  heart  on  ye  and 
ye  straining  yeer  ears  to  the  cries  of  'em,  like  the 
Greeks  sailing  between  the  islands  and  they  with  the 
wax  in  their  ears  the  way  they'd  hear  no  voices  of 
women  bringing  them  to  destruction.  Cry  the  good- 
bye to  her  and  ye  standing  up  there  on  the  tilt  of 
the  mountains  and  let  yeer  voice  go  out  with  the 
wind  that  blows  over  the  valley  in  the  ways  of  her. 
But  let  ye  go  down  and  may  the  God  Almighty  be 
at  the  right  hand  of  ye  for  'tis  not  a  woman  will  take 
that  word  from  the  lips  of  a  man  her  eyes  are  set  on. 
Let  you  go  down  and  all  the  nights  after  will  be  full 
of  the  voice  of  her,  for  'tis  women  have  the  ways  of 
Hell  when  a  man  shall  set  his  soul  against  'em." 

"Still — I  shall  go,"  Anthony  Sorel  replied  in  the 
quiet  confidence  of  his  voice. 

And  there  they  sat  talking  between  the  silences 
.until  the  night  was  worn  by  their  words  into  the  day. 


CHAPTER   XI 

SHE  had  spoken,  as  they  parted  that  night,  of 
some  hope  that  one  day  he  would  come  down 
from  his  mountains  and  visit  her  in  her  val- 
ley. And  now  one  morning,  when  a  week  had 
gone  by,  as  she  was  tending  to  her  garden,  training 
the  tendrils  of  her  seedlings  of  sweet-peas  in  the 
way  they  should  go,  she  looked  up  at  the  sound 
of  footsteps  and  saw  Anthony  Sorel  coming  to- 
wards her  between  the  long  green  lines  of  thick-set 
box. 

He  might  have  seen  her  glance  at  the  rough  gar- 
dening apron  that  she  wore,  the  swift  look  at  her 
hands  which  in  a  garden  were  clean  enough,  the 
quick  motion  putting  back  the  loose  hair  that  had 
fallen  over  her  forehead  as  she  stooped;  countless 
other  little  things  he  might  have  observed  as  he 
came  down  the  garden  path  but  his  eyes  were  not 
for  these.  They  were  for  her  eyes  and  the  thoughts 
that  lay  behind  them. 

Another  woman  might  have  excused  herself,  have 
complained  of  the  untidy  apron,  mourned  over  her 
hands,  holding  them  with  the  mold  upon  them  that 
he  might  have  known  their  beauty  notwithstanding. 
Indeed  to  any  other  man,  Anna  Quartermaine  might 
have  done  this  herself.  To  Anthony  Sorel  she  stood, 
merely  expressing  her  surprise,  conscious  again  of 

209 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

that  deeper  pulse  in  her  heart  which  beat  but  did  not 
flutter  in  its  emotion. 

"I  have  been  wondering  should  I  see  you  again," 
she  said,  and  in  that  reserve  expressed  all  the 
thoughts  that  had  persistently  occupied  her  mind 
from  the  moment  of  their  parting. 

"I  didn't  wonder,"  said  he — "I  meant  to  see  you 
again — "  and  thereby,  without  reserve,  in  such  a 
way  as  a  child  might  tell  the  simple  truth,  showed 
her  without  his  knowing  it,  his  thoughts  had  been 
of  her. 

Knowing  him  so  little  and  in  an  eagerness  for  his 
gift  of  admiration,  she  asked  him  why — why  had 
he  meant  to  see  her  again. 

"Because,"  he  said — "because  I  had  not  properly 
said  good-bye.  There  are  no  such  things  as  man- 
ners between  a  man  and  himself.  You  live  here 
and  expect  them.  Didn't  I  turn  on  my  heel  and 
walk  away  across  the  moors,  leaving  you  the  rest  of 
your  way  home  alone  and  at  night?  It  didn't  oc- 
cur to  me  till  two  days  had  gone  by  that  I  should 
have  seen  you  to  your  house,  that  you  would  natur- 
ally expect  it,  not  that  it  wasn't  safe  but — but — " 
he  smiled — "Oh — just  manners.  I  don't  meet  with 
people  like  yourself  and  so  I  have  no  need  of  them." 

This  was  why  he  had  meant  to  see  her — to  say 
good-bye.  Had  she  thought  it  was  that,  she  might 
not  have  asked  him.  There  was  but  little  effort  in 
her  to  hide  her  disappointment.  She  stood  there  in 
silence,  pulling  on  her  garden  gloves  as  though  that 
interest  of  her  flowers  at  least  was  left  her.  She 

210 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

stooped  and  picked  up  from  the  path  the  box  filled 
with  the  supports  for  her  seedlings.  Then  she 
looked  at  him. 

"See  my  garden  first,"  said  she  and  wondered  to 
herself  why  she  so  quietly  accepted  parting  at  his 
hands,  when  in  such  a  mood,  she  would  under  some 
pretext  have  refused  it  at  another's. 

With  his  eyes  he  consented.  Indeed  it  was  with 
his  eyes  he  spoke  more  often  than  with  his  lips.  She 
knew  him  best  and  thought  of  him  most  for  the  si- 
lence of  his  voice. 

The  Darwin  tulips  were  in  bud,  some  burst  in 
flower.  The  great  clusters  of  their  formal  green 
buds  were  full  of  simple  conception  like  the  decora- 
tion that  a  child  might  make  with  patient  fingers  for 
its  task,  capable  only  of  artless  repetition. 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  names  and  ways  of  flow- 
ers. They  were  only  colors  out  of  the  earth  to  him, 
jewels,  as  when  a  woman  opens  her  treasure  store 
and  spreads  out  her  gems  wondering  and  debating 
which  she  will  wear.  And  there  were  colors  in  gen- 
erous plenty  for  him  in  her  garden. 

The  scent  of  late  violets,  lingering  on,  was  soft  in 
the  air.  Wallflowers  were  still  just  in  bloom.  It 
was  that  moment  of  a  garden  in  Spring  when  Na- 
ture gives  with  both  hands  before  the  arms  of  Sum- 
mer are  full  of  roses.  He  could  have  chosen  no 
better  time  for  apology  for  his  manners. 

She  stole  sharp  glances  at  his  face  as  they  walked 
in  silence  and  knew,  as  in  moments  when  he  stood 
still,  like  some  creature  drinking  water  on  a  parch- 

211 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

ing  day  of  thirst,  that,  despite  himself,  emotions 
were  moving  in  him  and  so  secretly  that  he  had  no 
thought  of  their  control. 

Down  one  path  they  wandered  and  up  another. 
Here  there  were  windflowers  turning  to  the  sun; 
there  the  aubretia  was  mingling  purple  and  mauve 
with  the  forget-me-not  and  its  blue.  With  the  aid 
of  her  gardeners,  she  had  not  spent  those  years 
upon  her  garden  in  vain.  In  one  of  those  glances 
as  she  looked  at  him,  she  felt  she  knew  the  pur- 
pose it  had  been. 

Yet  she  waited  for  him  to  speak,  leaving  him  all 
the  warmth  of  emotion  that  filled  his  long  silence. 
Here  she  stopped  to  pick  a  faded  blossom  from  its 
stalk,  there  she  pulled  a  weed  as  though  each  bed 
of  flowers  was  a  bed  where  children  slept,  needing 
tenderness.  Once  she  plucked  a  violet  and  fastened 
it  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  And  still  he  was  silent, 
with  his  eyes  drinking  the  colors  in  and  the  sun 
heating  the  air  until  it  seemed  as  if  they  scarcely 
walked  on  earth  at  all. 

Then  in  the  midst  of  a  path  between  a  wilder- 
ness of  roses  laden  with  their  little  swelling  buds, 
he  stopped  again.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"Why  did  you  want  me  to  see  your  garden  first?" 
he  asked. 

With  him  she  was  deprived  of  all  consciousness 
in  her  motives  and  could  not  answer  why.  Unless 
it  was  that  she  loved  her  flowers  with  the  proud  love 
gardeners  have,  usurping  almost  the  agency  of  God, 
talking  of  their  roses  as  if  the  earth  had  never  fed 

212 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

them.  Unless  it  were  that,  she  told  him.  She  knew 
no  other  cause. 

"Don't  you  love  my  garden?"  she  added. 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  as  though  he  had  been 
asleep,  when  dreams  of  impossible  things  had  dis- 
turbed the  even  measure  of  his  mind.  She  felt  that 
he  was  urging  himself  to  awake  to  his  old  deter- 
minations. 

"It's  full  of  emotions,"  he  said.  "Colors  always 
are." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Why  do  you  despise  emotions  so?"  she  inquired. 

He  made  a  gesture  as  though  he  were  shaking 
himself  free  of  sensations  that  oppressed  him.  He 
turned  his  head  and  looked  straight  into  the  light 
of  the  sun  until  there  must  have  been  a  dazzling 
blindness  in  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  despise  them,"  he  replied — "they  despise 
me — have  despised  me — all  my  life."  He  looked 
at  her  suddenly,  his  sight  all  blinded  by  the  glare  of 
sun  so  that  she  knew  he  could  scarcely  see  her  face. 
"Don't  you  understand  why  I  live  as  I  do?"  he 
asked  and  with  more  emotion  in  his  voice  than  she 
had  yet  heard.  "When  I  told  you  to  think  over  to 
yourself  whether  I  were  queer  or  not,  didn't  you 
come  at  some  idea  of  meaning  about  me?" 

"No." 

She  spoke  under  her  breath.  Her  voice  was  as 
still  as  the  air  the  violets  were  softening  with  their 
scent. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  the  other  day  up  in  the  moun- 
213 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

tains  that  I  was  trying  to  find  calmness  and  strength 
for  my  mind?  Didn't  you  understand  what  I 
meant?" 

"I  thought  I  did,"  said  she — "then,  I  thought 
I  did.  Now,  I  don't  understand  at  all." 

"Well,  then,"  he  said  suddenly — "I'm  thirty- 
three — half  of  my  life  gone,  nearly  all  my  youth. 
One  learns  about  oneself  by  the  mere  actions  of  one's 
life,  without  the  need  for  self-analysis.  I've  learnt 
about  myself.  First  emotion  deceives  and  then  de- 
spises me.  That  is  what  I  have  learnt.  Now  I'm 
learning,  up  in  those  mountains  alone,  how  I  can. 
invigorate  my  mind  without  the  sensations  that  emo- 
tion sets  at  havoc  and  keeps  in  endless  tumult.  Life 
need  not  be  made  up  of  sensations,  I  used  to  think 
it  was  nothing  else.  Everybody  does — more  or  less, 
according  to  the  strength  of  their  emotions.  Not 
once,  but  many  times,  I've  thought  I  knew  what  love 
was.  Emotion  has  deceived  and  then  despised  me. 
If  that  is  myself  then  I  must  rise  above  myself;  for 
what  it  is  in  me  I  don't  know,  but  something  con- 
vinces me  that  love  and  all  the  great  emotions  in 
life  are  not  of  the  body,  but  only  of  the  mind;  are 
not  sensations,  beating  you  like  a  storm  at  sea, 
but  visions,  such  as  the  prophets  saw  before  the 
world  was  fettered  with  its  civilization.  They  are 
the  miracles  of  life  which  modern  culture  has  re- 
duced to  mere  sensations.  What  in  days  gone  by 
they  saw  in  their  minds,  we  see  in  our  eyes;  what 
they  felt  in  their  souls,  we  feel  in  our  bodies.  When 
they  fought  with  the  sword,  rightly  or  wrongly,  they 

214 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

fought  for  ideas.  But  now  when  we  fight,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  we  fight  for  the  welfare  of  our  bodies. 
Can't  you  understand?  I  want  to  see  the  miracu- 
lous in  life;  I  want  my  emotions  to  become  visions 
of  the  highest  things  in  this  world  or  the  next,  not  the 
sensations  that  cast  me  into  despair  or  fling  me  high 
upon  a  giddy  pinnacle  of  hope.  Oh — I  can't  explain 
it  any  better  than  that.  It  is  not  meant  to  be  ex- 
plained. If  there  is  anything  that  is  God  in  a  man, 
that  is  what  I  want  to  be,  not  just  the  ready  instru- 
ment in  the  hands  of  Nature.  I  don't  know  why 
I  go  on  trying  to  explain  it  to  you.  I  have  kept  si- 
lence these  last  two  years  and  not  even  tried  to  ex- 
plain it  to  myself.  I  know  what  I  mean — that  has 
been  sufficient  for  me  till  now.  Now  I  find  myself 
floundering  in  a  bewildering  morass  of  words,  en- 
deavoring to  explain  to  you  what  cannot  be  explained 
with  words,  what  indeed  words  can  only  serve  to 
conceal." 

He  might  not  know  why  he  tried  to  explain  it  all 
to  her,  but  instinct  as  swift  as  it  was  sure  gave 
her  sight  of  it.  She  stood  there  looking  at  his  face 
in  the  sunlight,  the  half-timid  sensitiveness  of  it  and 
yet,  above  all  that,  the  nervous  strength  of  endur- 
ing purpose,  and  then  her  mind  fastened  itself  on 
one  of  those  prophetic  determinations  women  so 
often  came  upon.  She  would  not  lose  him,  she  de- 
clared to  herself.  Whether  it  were  emotion  or  the 
laws  of  Nature,  or  any  of  those  factors  he  was  en- 
deavoring to  master  in  himself,  for  herself  she  rec- 
ognized that  essence  of  inevitability  which  admits 

215 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

no  argument  but  moves  to  its  purpose  as  irrevocably 
as  the  clouds  across  the  sky.  Once  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  that  determination,  she  set  out  to  show  him 
how  inevitable  it  was  by  those  methods  of  conceal- 
ment with  which  only  a  woman  knows  how  to  di- 
vulge the  secret  she  would  wish  made  known. 

"Your  words  don't  confuse  it  to  me,"  she  said 
gently.  "I  know  what  you  mean  now.  But  I  don't 
know  why  you  should  say  your  youth  is  almost  gone. 
Aren't  those  wonderful  ideas  the  privilege  and  very 
spirit  of  youth?  Now  I  understand  why  you  believe 
in  faeries.  Aren't  they  some  of  your  miracles  in 
life?" 

"Very  earthly  ones,"  he  replied — "those  faeries 
in  the  mountains.  I  know  of  no  faerie  that  is  a  sym- 
bol of  great  and  uplifting  ideals.  Wherever  there 
are  faeries,  you  will  only  find  them  to  be  symbols 
of  the  emotions  known  to  those  people  by  whom  they 
are  seen.  All  the  same  it  is  only  a  consciousness 
of  the  inner  life  which  makes  them  visible.  That  is 
why  you  find  them  in  Ireland,  but  even  then,  only  in 
those  lonely  places  where  civilization  has  not  passed 
its  hands  across  the  eyes  of  the  mind  still  eager  to 
see.  There  is  a  saying  which  has  been  converted  to 
the  use  of  many — you  must  have  heard  it.  We  only 
get  those  Jews  that  we  deserve.  I've  heard  it  put 
to  that  use  in  England.  Here  in  the  mountains  we 
might  well  say — a  man  only  sees  the  faeries  he  de- 


serves." 


"Have  you  ever  seen  a  faerie?"  she  asked. 
"I've   seen  lights  across  the  hills,"   he   replied. 
216 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Often  I  saw  lights  from  the  window  of  that  little 
cabin  of  mine — often  I  heard  sounds  and  once  in  the 
darkness  a  voice  spoke  to  me.  That  was  when  I 
first  came  to  Knockshunahallion.  Now  I  have  no 
light  of  fear  to  see,  no  voice  of  desires  to  hear. 
If  ever  a  faerie  comes  to  me,  I  shall  know  that  I  am 
failing  in  the  strength  and  calmness  of  my  mind." 

Much  as  a  knowledge  of  him  was  coming  to  her, 
she  could  not  contain  the  wonder  in  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sure  you're  the  strangest  man  I've  ever  met," 
she  said.  "I  can  quite  understand  now,  how  you 
believe  that  was  faerie  music  in  Mary  Coyne's  ears. 
Almost  I  can  believe  it  myself.  Is  she  any  better? 
Is  she  going  to  have  the  operation  done?  I  suppose 
she  will  when  she  rfcally  comes  to  realize  how  seri- 
ous it  is." 

He  smiled  as  he  told  her  there  was  no  belief  in 
her  as  yet. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  he  said,  "how  I  told  you 
that  Mary  Coyne  would  die  that  night?" 

"Yes — you  said  so." 

"Well— she  died." 

All  her  understanding  of  him  in  that  moment 
seemed  to  leave  her.  She  stood  there  on  the  path 
beside  him,  understanding  and  but  dimly  only  her- 
self. 

"How  did  you  know  she  would?"  she  asked. 

"She  meant  to  die,"  he  answered.  "Of  course 
they  say  the  faeries  have  taken  her,  and  of  course 
they  have.  She  has  been  taken  by  the  faerie  she  de- 
served. Her  beauty  killed  her." 

217 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Now  without  doubt  he  had  passed  her  understand- 
ing. What  did  he  mean?  What  was  it  he  believed? 
The  night  in  Mrs.  Coyne's  cottage  came  rudely  back 
to  her.  Of  a  sudden  she  remembered  all  the  things 
that  the  old  woman  had  said  before  her  frenzy  was 
spent.  She  remembered  how  he  had  let  her  speak, 
saying  she  had  authority.  At  the  time,  she  had  be- 
lieved he  said  it  merely  to  humor  the  old  woman's 
madness;  but  now,  superstition,  which  is  the  begin- 
ning of  faith,  was  troubling  her  mind  with  the 
thought  that  there  was  truth  in  her  prophecy. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say — "  she  asked — "do  you 
mean  to  say  you  believe  in  what  that  old  woman 
said  that  night?  That  you  would  be  taken  by  the 
faeries  and  that  I  should  come  by  death  in  my 
dreams?" 

The  very  words  as  she  said  them  fell  on  her  ears 
with  all  the  sound  of  their  improbability,  yet  it  was 
the  apprehensive  fear  in  her  which  comes  with  su- 
perstition that  brought  them  without  hesitation  to 
her  lips. 

"Do  you  believe?"  she  said  again  because  she  saw 
in  him  the  moment's  hesitation  to  reply. 

"What  is  the  good  of  my  saying?"  he  asked. 
"Visions  mean  nothing  to  you.  Here's  your  life — 
here  in  this  garden.  We  don't  even  look  at  those 
flowers  alike.  You  know  all  about  the  nature  of 
them,  their  names,  the  soil  they  love,  the  soil  they 
starve  in.  It's  in  their  material  sense  they  have 
meaning  to  you.  I  don't  say  that  in  contempt.  Good 
heavens !  their  material  meaning  is  beautiful  enough. 

218 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

But  it's  not  the  beauty  I  want  to  see."  He  held  out 
his  hand  as  though  he  were  thrusting  it  into  the  flame 
for  ever  to  be  burnt.  "Please  let  me  go,"  he  said. 
"I've  been  building  a  Tower  of  Babel  when  I  talked 
the  other  day  with  you  up  in  my  cabin;  I've  been 
building  it  ever  since,  been  building  it  this  morn- 
ing while  I  talked  to  you  again.  Now  it  has  come 
about  my  ears.  We  talk  in  different  tongues.  Don't 
you  see  that?  Beside  you  I'm  abnormal,  odd,  queer. 
I  am  queer;  but  no  less  than  you  are  to  me.  But 
yours  is  the  great  stream  where  almost  all  swim- 
mers seek  the  current.  I'm  floundering  in  a  far  sea 
where  the  tides  are  treacherous  and  from  which  no 
swimmer  has  ever  returned  to  make  his  chart  of  the 
way.  Please  let  me  go.  Good-bye." 

She  would  not  take  his  hand.  However  incom- 
prehensible he  was,  she  yet  had  made  her  determi- 
nation. She  would  not  lose  him  so. 

"Tell  me,"  she  insisted.  "I  must  know.  Did  you 
believe  what  that  old  woman  said?" 

"I  believe  she  saw  what  she  said,"  he  replied — 
"But  no  man's  Fate  is  irrevocable.  So  I  may  be 
steering,  but  the  rudder  is  in  my  hands  and  I  know 
the  rocks  that  threaten.  Don't  you  realize  that  that 
is  why  I  am  going  now?" 

"I  shan't  say  good-bye,"  she  replied. 

He  dropped  the  hand  to  his  side. 

"Then  I  must  go  without,"  he  replied  and  turned 
on  his  heel  down  the  path  between  the  thick-set  box. 

She  tried  to  call  him  back,  but  it  was  not  only  her 
unfamiliarity  with  his  name  that  stifled  the  words 
15  219 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

on  her  lips.  She  could  not  speak.  He  had  destroyed 
the  power  of  it  on  her  tongue.  Even  when  he  had 
turned  out  of  sight  beyond  a  bed  of  flaming  tulips, 
she  still  stood  there  in  silence  where  he  had  left  her. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THAT  evening  Anna  Quartermaine  sent  one  of 
her  brief  invitations  to  Father  Nolan.  The 
day  of  sunshine  it  had  been,  had  turned 
to  showers  of  heavy  rain.  He  came  notwithstand- 
ing. Rain  was  not  the  excuse  she  would  permit  him. 
His  old  umbrella  stood  in  a  pool  in  a  corner  of  the 
hall  to  prove  what  he  had  come  through.  He  looked 
at  the  pool;  wistfully  at  the  muddy  bottoms  of  his 
trousers  and  then  he  was  shown  into  her  little  bou- 
doir where,  against  all  precedent,  she  was  ready  to 
receive  him. 

This  was  a  new  mood,  a  strange  mood.  He  took 
her  hand  warmly — that  warmth  always  allowed  him 
— and  held  it  there,  looking  inquiringly  into  her  eyes. 
She  let  him  look  and  tried  her  best  to  smile.  But 
she  never  meant  it  to  be  a  success.  She  meant  him 
to  see  the  effort  and  fully  intended  he  should  see  it 
fail. 

The  whole  matter  was  that  she  wanted  sympathy 
and  needed  it  to  be  given  without  the  trouble  of  ask- 
ing. The  failure  of  her  smile,  that  was  the  utmost 
expression  of  her  request. 

He  patted  her  hand  in  the  fatherly  way  he  had 
with  him  and  asked  her  what  the  matter  was. 

"Come  and  eat  your  dinner,"  said  she,  for  it  was 
not  to  be  told  so  readily  as  all  that.  There  being 

221 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

some  matter  on  her  mind,  she  required  at  least  that 
it  should  be  humored  out  of  her.  The  joy  of  telling 
was  not  to  be  found  in  point-blank  confession.  In- 
deed she  ordered  her  life  so  that  even  her  depres- 
sions afforded  her  some  enjoyment.  The  contempla- 
tion of  his  doing  his  utmost  all  through  the  meal 
to  find  out  what  was  distressing  her,  distressing  him- 
self in  the  effort,  perhaps  spoiling  his  dinner — which, 
though  she  did  not  wish  it  exactly,  yet  could  not  be 
helped — this  was  the  enjoyment  she  sought  for  in 
her  mood. 

It  may  be  supposed  she  found  it  with  the  charm 
of  the  ways  she  had.  There  never  was  a  more 
sympathetic  nature  than  that  of  Father  Nolan;  and 
when  it  was  a  woman  in  distress  and  that  woman 
was  Anna  Quartermaine,  he  could  take  almost  the 
color  of  her  mood,  turning  himself  to  that  exact  pitch 
of  receptivity  when  confession  becomes  the  natural 
instinct  of  the  mind. 

His  dinner  was  spoiled.  That  had  to  be.  She 
could  not  properly  have  enjoyed  her  mood  unless. 
It  was  essential  to  the  whole  condition  of  things  that 
she  should  see  him  fretting  over  her.  All  those  who 
had  any  affection  for  her  were  willing  enough  to  do 
that.  Father  Nolan  was  one  of  them  and  if  he 
needed  any  consolation  for  the  spoiling  of  his  meal, 
found  it  cheerfully  enough  in  the  fact  that  it  was 
Friday — a  proper  day  for  such  a  sacrifice. 

Not  until  they  were  back  again  in  her  little  room, 
taking  their  coffee  out  of  Lowestoft  cups — china,  the 
character  of  which  had  many  resemblances  to  her — 

222 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

not  until  then,  did  she  begin  to  yield  to  the  gentle 
pressure  of  his  questions. 

She  was  unhappy,  she  said,  because  she  had  heard 
from  her  celibate — this  was  the  comprehensive  way 
she  named  him  to  Father  Nolan — that  she  was  not 
going  to  see  him  again. 

"He  writes  good-bye,"  said  she,  "and  that's  a 
word  that  depresses  me  more  than  anything  else. 
Why  are  men  so  frightfully,  frightfully  stupid?  I 
hate  losing  people.  Don't  you  know  that  about  me? 
I  hate  it." 

"You're  going  to  lose  him  then?" 

"Indeed  I'm  not,"  said  she  and,  had  it  been  the 
moment  to  laugh  at  her,  he  would  have  laughed  at 
her  then.  But  it  was  no  such  moment.  His  face  was 
a  picture  of  solemnity  as  he  returned  her  look  of  set- 
tled determination. 

"What  brought  about  the  writing  of  this  letter?" 
he  asked  presently.  "Why  suddenly  does  it  come 
over  him,  the  way  he  must  say  good-bye  after  all 
this  time?" 

"He  doesn't  explain,"  she  replied.  "He  gives  me 
no  reasons — just  says  good-bye.  As  if  things  could 
end  like  that.  Aren't  men  fools!" 

"Why  fools?"  said  he. 

"Well — because  it  was  so  wonderful  as  it  was. 
He  was  so  absolutely  different  from  anyone 
else." 

"Is  it  the  way  you  don't  like  him  now  at  all?" 

"No — can't  you  see — I'm  in  love  with  him  now. 
That's  what's  making  me  so  miserable.  Oh,  aren't 

223 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

men  fools !  As  if  any  woman  would  say  good-bye 
to  them,  once — once " 

Her  eyes,  the  expression  of  her  lips,  the  way  she 
clutched  one  hand  upon  another,  all  finished  that 
sentence  for  her.  He  knew  what  she  meant  and 
now  could  afford  to  relax  that  solemnity  he  had  as- 
sumed. It  was  not  exactly  a  moment  for  laughter, 
but  he  knew  she  would  expect  him  to  be  amused. 

"Oh  yes — you  can  smile,"  she  said  at  once,  "and 
so  can  I — but  it's  not  a  smile.  It's  only  a  grin." 

Suddenly  then  her  whole  manner  changed.  She 
had  let  him  win  her  out  of  her  mood  and  at  no 
greater  cost  than  the  enjoyment  of  his  dinner.  Many 
a  man  had  had  to  pay  more  than  that  for  the  privi- 
lege. She  even  had  let  him  make  her  smile.  But 
now  the  mood  was  gone  and,  half  with  the  suspicion 
of  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  was  showing  him  her  real 
self. 

Leaning  forward  in  her  chair,  she  laid  a  hand  on 
his  and  tightened  her  fingers  about  it,  hoping  to  see 
him  wince  because  the  pride  of  her  hands  was  that 
they  were  strong.  He  did  wince;  just  a  twitch  of 
his  eyelids.  It  was  enough  for  her  to  see.  She  felt 
no  disappointment  to  hinder  her  emotions. 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  lose  him?"  she  whispered. 
"You're  a  man — you're  a  celibate — you  know  what 
men  feel  when  they  get  these  ridiculous  notions  into 
their  heads." 

Never  did  she  stop  to  think  how  her  words  re- 
flected upon  him.  These  ridiculous  notions!  He 
could  smile  at  her  then,  knowing  how  little  she  un- 

224 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

derstood,  yet  realizing  how  deep  an  impression  those 
very  ridiculous  notions  had  made  upon  her. 

"What  does  he  gain  out  of  life?"  she  went  on, 
still  too  emotional  to  choose  her  words.  So  inti- 
mately as  this  she  might  have  spoken  to  another 
woman,  but  that  women  meant  little  or  nothing  to 
her.  Father  Nolan  had  long  discovered  that  being 
spiritual  adviser  to  Anna  Quartermaine  entailed  ca- 
pacities which  demanded  the  utmost  resources  of  his 
nature.  He  was  a  celibate  priest  and  there  he  was 
expected  to  sit  quietly  beside  her,  telling  her  what 
were  the  feelings  of  a  man  who  got  these  ridiculous 
notions  of  celibacy  into  his  head.  Without  a  vivid 
sense  of  humor  he  might  well  have  stopped  at  that. 
But  her  judgment  of  him  took  that  quality  for 
granted.  He  must  give  a  satisfactory  account  of  his 
own  attitude  of  mind.  Nothing  short  of  that  would 
content  her. 

"Well — what  does  he  gain?"  she  persisted,  for 
with  every  intention  in  the  world  to  reply  as  best 
he  could,  he  was  yet  slow  of  answering.  "It  seems 
meaningless  to  me.  Life  is  life.  We've  been  given 
our  emotions;  why  should  we  be  ashamed  of  them? 
Why  should  we  suppose  that  they  do  nothing  but  de- 
ceive us?" 

"Is  that  what  he  supposes?" 

"That's  what  he  says.  Have  you  ever  felt  that? 
Have  you  ever  felt  that  your  emotions  destroyed 
your  own  power  of  yourself?" 

"I'm  a  priest,"  said  he  in  self-defense,  half  hop- 
ing that  the  reminder  might  give  her  pause  to  think. 

225 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

She  took  no  notice  of  it.    Thoughts  were  too  swift 
in  her  for  arrest  such  as  that. 

"I  know — I  know,"  she  said.  "That's  why  I'm 
asking  you.  You've  had  your  vows  taken  all  these 
years." 

"Yirra,  we  won't  say  how  many,"  said  he. 

"Well — did  you  become  a  priest  because  you  were 
afraid  of  your  emotions?" 

"I  did  not,"  said  he.  "I  became  a  priest  because 
me  father  put  a  stick  across  me  back  when  I  said  I 
didn't  want  to  go  to  Maynooth — and  I've  remained 
a  priest — "  his  voice  altered — "because  'tis  the  way 
a  priest  can  have  a  clearer  mind  for  understanding 
the  ways  of  God  than  him  that  is  being  swept  this 
way  and  that  with  the  desires  that  do  be  in  him." 

"You  mean  that?"  she  asked.  He  heard  the  note 
of  trouble  in  her  voice. 

"I  do,"  said  he. 

"That's  what  he  said."  She  took  her  hands  from 
his  hands  and  leant  back  again  in  her  chair.  "That's 
what  he  said — that  there  was  something  of  God  in 
a  man  and  he  was  living  to  find  it  in  himself." 

"You'd  better  tell  him,"  said  Father  Nolan, 
"that  the  priesthood  is  open  to  him.  Wouldn't  he 
be  wasting  his  time  in  this  world  with  ideas  like 
that?" 

"He's  not  a  priest,"  said  she.  "He'd  never  be  a 
priest.  Some  of  the  things  he  says  would  make  the 
hairs  of  orthodoxy  stand  up  on  your  dear  old  re- 
ligious head." 

"That  doesn't  make  him  any  the  less  of  a  priest," 
226 


he  replied,  "no  more  than  falling  in  love  with  him 
the  moment  he's  gone  from  ye  makes  ye  any  the  less 
of  a  woman." 

She  was  not  prepared  to  see  the  twinkle  in  his  eye 
just  then  and  asked  him  simply  if  he  did  really 
think  that  was  so  unlike  a  woman.  Receiving  no 
answer,  she  looked  up  quickly  and  then  she  knew. 

"Oh  no — don't  make  fun  of  me,"  she  begged.  "I 
am  unhappy — I'm  really  terribly  unhappy.  I  say  I 
won't  let  him  go.  But  you  don't  know  that  look  in 
his  eyes  as  I  do.  What  shall  I  do  if  I  never  see 
him  again?  What  shall  I  do?"  She  was  not  ask- 
ing for  an  answer  to  that;  did  not  wait  for  it.  From 
one  attitude,  from  one  aspect  to  another,  her  mind 
was  racing  and,  leaping  back  now  to  what  he  had 
just  said,  she  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  his  allu- 
sions to  the  priesthood. 

"Why  isn't  he  any  the  less  of  a  priest?"  she 
wanted  to  know. 

"Because  what  I  can  gather  of  the  young  man," 
said  he.  "Is  he  a  young  man?" 

"About  thirty-five." 

He  thought  of  his  own  twenty  years  added  to  that 
and  declared  it  was  a  fine  age  for  a  man  to  have 
such  knowledge  of  himself. 

"But  from  what  I  can  gather  of  him,"  he  went  on, 
"he's  the  type  priests  are  made  of.  Mind  ye, 
they  are  not  all  priests  that  take  the  collar.  They 
are  not.  And  there's  many  a  man  in  a  hateful  red 
tunic  or  a  jaunty  Caroline  would  be  better  dressed  in 
a  stole  and  cassock.  Shure  'tis  the  Church  gives 

227 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

a  man  the  collar  that  he  wears,  but  isn't  it  God  Al- 
mighty that  makes  the  man  what  he  is?  It  is  in- 
deed. That  young  man  is  a  priest  not  because  his 
father  has  never  laid  a  sthick  across  his  back,  but  be- 
cause God  put  the  spirit  of  it  in  his  heart.  One 
like  himself  will  never  be  desthroyed  by  a  woman, 
or  if  he  is,  'twill  break  the  heart  in  him." 

"Yes — that's  all  very  well,"  said  she,  in  arms  at 
once  against  the  attitude  he  took,  "but  how  about 
me?  Don't  I  count  at  all?  Am  I  to  be  absolutely 
put  aside?" 

"And  who's  putting  you  aside?"  he  returned. 
"Did  Major  Allen  put  ye  aside?  Did  all  the  other 
men  who've  ever  been  in  love  with  ye — and  God 
knows  how  many  fingers  I  have  on  my  hands  and 
what  good  they'd  be  to  me — did  they  put  ye  aside? 
Glory  be  to  God,  me  dear  child,  it  is  not  love  ye're 
after  wanting." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"  'Tis  that  thing  whatever  it  may  be  that  ye  can't 
get.  And  that's  the  truth  I'm  telling  ye.  Faith, 
ye're  one  of  those  women  whose  spirits  are  too  high 
for  the  body  God  has  given  ye — beautiful  though  it 


is." 


She  touched  his  hand.  It  was  just  thanking  him 
for  that,  even  though  he  never  noticed  it. 

"I  suppose  there's  a  call  for  ye,"  he  went  on, 
"though  the  Almighty  God  knows  what  it  is.  I 
wouldn't  hazard  a  guess  meself,  unless  it  was  that 
ye're  sent  into  the  world  to  make  life  difficult  for  the 
men  who  are  meant  to  rise  by  reason  of  the  difficul- 

228 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

ties  they  encounter.  Unless  'tis  that,  I  can't  see  the 
good  of  ye  at  all." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  puckered  lips. 

"You  don't  think  very  much  of  me  then?"  she 
said — as  she  could  say  it,  not  too  childishly,  but  with 
big  eyes,  genuinely  wistful. 

"If  ye  look  like  that  at  the  young  man,"  said  he, 
"he'll  need  all  the  priest  that's  in  him  by  Nature. 
Maynooth  'ud  never  save  him  if  ye  look  at  him  like 
that." 

She  more  than  touched  his  hand.  Now  she  took 
it  in  hers  again. 

"Well — say  then,"  she  said  eagerly,  "say  that 
you  don't  believe  what  you  said  about  him  before?" 

"What  was  that?" 

"That  he  idealized  me — but  that  he  might  go 
away  and  marry  someone  else." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  happier  for  him?"  said  he. 

"Oh — I  don't  know  whether  it  'ud  be  happier — 
perhaps  it  would.  But  say  he  won't." 

"Well — now — I  wouldn't  say  that  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  he  might.  But  ye  can  be  satisfied  in 
yourself  that  it  wouldn't  be  anyone  ye'd  be  jealous 
of.  That  sort  of  man  when  he  does  marry,  needs 
a  creature  that  doesn't  begin  to  know  the  sort  of 
husband  she's  got  and  is  no  more  a  part  of  his  real 
life  than  the  coat  he  lays  on  his  back." 

"Do  you  mean  a  sort  of  peasant  woman?"  She 
thought  of  Mary  Coyne  with  her  undeveloped  mind 
the  wonderful  beauty  of  her  face.  Did  he  mean 
229 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

such  a  woman  as  that?  She  thought  of  Anthony 
Sorel  at  the  cross  roads  where  often  he  had  told  her, 
he  stood  and  watched  the  girls  and  young  men  danc- 
ing. Did  he  mean  a  woman  as  one  of  those?  A 
dread  swept  into  her  heart  that  it  might  be  true 
when — "Oh — what  a  shame  that  would  be!"  she 
cried.  "Surely  a  man  like  that  couldn't  be  wasted 
in  such  a  way." 

"I  don't  know  would  it  be  a  waste?"  said  Father 
Nolan  slowly.  "With  such  a  woman  as  that,  ye 
might  scarcely  say  he  was  married  at  all.  She'd 
never  stand  in  the  pathway  he's  walking  in.  I  dunno 
would  it  be  a  waste.  It  might  be  the  only  thing  for 
him.  Then  he'd  keep  ye  in  his  mind — the  ideal  un- 
touched— for  the  remainder  of  his  life  and  maybe 
he'd  be  telling  the  good  girl  he  was  married  to  all 
about  ye." 

"Tell  her  how  much  he  loved  me  and  she'd  listen, 
never  saying  a  word."  This  she  joined  in  with, 
seeing  the  picture  far  clearer  than  he.  "But,  Oh  my 
goodness!"  she  exclaimed.  "Don't  you  call  that  a 
waste !  What's  the  matter  with  me ?"  She  im- 
pelled him  now  to  look  at  her.  "What  harm  should 
I  bring  to  him?  You  talk  about  me  as  if  I  were  a 
thing  to  be  avoided.  Am  I  as  horrible  as  all 
that?" 

He  shook  his  head  backwards  and  forwards  as 
one  who  gave  up  all  hope  of  understanding.  Even 
here,  he  could  see  the  net  she  was  spreading  to  catch 
him.  Was  she  as  horrible  as  all  that?  What  a 
question !  Yet  he  set  out  boldly  to  answer  it. 

230 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Ye  have  the  laws  of  Nature  in  the  bones  of  ye," 
said  he,  "and  a  man  of  his  kind  would  be  doing 
well  for  himself  if  he  went  to  the  other  ends  of  the 
earth  than  be  meeting  ye.  Don't  ye  know  that  your- 
self? Isn't  this  young  fella  after  saying  there  is 
something  of  God  in  a  man  and  shure  it  isn't  that  in 
him  would  be  any  good  to  Nature  at  all.  'Tis  not 
marriage  he's  wanting,  which  is  an  earthly  sacra- 
ment death  can  put  an  end  to ;  'tis  something  which 
denies  death,  something  which  the  life  ye'd  bring 
him  would  only  destroy  with  the  fear  of  death. 
Surely  to  God  the  less  ye  lay  hold  on  life  in  this 
world,  the  easier  it  is  to  let  it  go  in  the  hour  of 
severance.  But  the  laws  of  Nature  are  quick  in 
yeer  veins,  the  way  ye'd  have  him  bind  up  his  life 
with  your  own  and  the  children  he'd  bring  ye,  so 
that  the  fear  of  death  would  come  quick  to  him 
at  night  while  ye  lay  suffering  on  a  bed  of  child- 
birth. That  young  man's  a  priest,  I  tell  ye,  and 
whether  he  wears  the  collar  or  not  he'll  strive  as 
much  as  any  man  of  the  Church  to  keep  the  distance 
of  ye." 

He  had  spoken  now  in  the  fearlessness  of  what  he 
believed,  feeling,  despite  his  friendship  for  her, 
all  his  sympathies  given  out  to  this  young  man; 
knowing  the  difficulties  of  the  way  he  had  chosen 
and  believing  how  nothing  but  the  sanctuary  of  the 
Church  could  save  him  when  once  she  had  set  her 
heart  upon  his  capture. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  now  and  looked  wistfully  again 
at  the  muddy  bottoms  of  his  trousers. 

231 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Tell  him  from  me,"  said  he,  "that  only  the 
Church'll  save  him.  That  young  man  ought  to  be 
a  monk  in  Melleray  and  never  speak  to  a  woman 
again,  if  'tis  the  way  he  would  keep  to  the  path  he's 
walking  in.  The  world  is  no  place  for  him.  'Tis 
there  he  can  keep  ye  the  ideal  woman  in  his 
mind  and  be  silent  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Tell 
him  that  from  me,"  he  added  and  turned  then  to 

go- 

"You're  only  thinking  for  him — you  don't  think 
for  me  at  all,"  said  she. 

"Faith,  I've  never  met  anybody  could  do  their 
own  thinking  better  than  ye  can  yeerself,"  he  replied. 

"Aren't  ye  thinking  now  as  hard  as  yeer  brain'll  let 
ye,  the  way  ye  can  bring  him  back  to  ye?  Isn't  that 
what  ye're  thinking?" 

"He  shan't  go  and  throw  himself  away  on  a  peas- 
ant woman,"  she  declared.  "I'll  save  him  from 
that." 

"I'd  trust  ye  for  that,"  said  he.  "That  young 
fella  has  chosen  a  path  no  woman  has  ever  let  a  man 
walk  in  yet.  I  shall  be  marrying  the  two  of  ye  one 
day  and  I've  no  doubt  he'll  have  the  sense  to  bless 
me  for  it  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  But  he  won't  be 
the  man  he  was  and  he  knows  it  now." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  then  turned 
again. 

"Yeer  gardener — Michael — told  me  ye  had  a 
young  man  seeing  round  the  garden  to-day.  Is  it  the 
way  ye're  going  to  take  another  man's  advice  about 
yeer  own  garden?" 

232 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"I  might,"  said  she. 

"Michael  will  never  forgive  ye  if  ye  do,"  said  he. 
"Oh  yes,  he  will,"  she  replied — "Why,  everybody 
forgives  me — even  you." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ANTHONY  SOREL  came  back  to  his  cabin  in 
the  mountains  as  a  man  returns  from  his 
pilgrimage  to  a  holy  shrine. 

A  new  vigor  was  in  him,  a  higher  exaltation  than 
he  had  ever  reached.  The  very  earth  he  trod  was 
buoyant  underneath  his  feet.  With  every  lark  that 
rose  out  of  the  heather,  his  heart  went  with  it  up  into 
the  burnished  sky. 

There  was  victory  in  sight  of  him.  In  those  two 
years  of  solitude,  he  now  believed  he  had  found  the 
mastery  of  emotion.  He  could  look  at  the  thing  he 
loved  without  desire  of  that  bodily  sensation  of  pos- 
session. He  could  put  her  out  of  the  immediate  de- 
mands of  his  life  as,  coming  to  the  hour  of  his  la- 
bor, a  man  might  put  down  a  child  from  his  knees. 
Another  lonely  year  perhaps  with  that  ideal  before 
his  eyes  and  he  might  have  knowledge  of  his  soul 
to  claim  the  thing  he  loved  without  fear  that  his 
emotions  would  deceive  him. 

Yet  so  swift  had  it  been,  that  there  still  were  mo- 
ments when  he  sat  alone,  in  which  he  doubted  of 
himself.  Her  beauty,  not  in  each  separate  feature, 
but  that  beauty  he  saw  in  all  her  face,  meaning  the 
beauty  to  him  he  found  within  her  mind,  came  back 
again  and  again  to  him  in  his  meditations. 

Then  one  night  he  dreamt  he  stood  beside  the  lake 
234 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

that  lies  in  that  depthless  hollow  of  Knockshunahal- 
lion  and,  as  he  watched  the  water,  black  as  the  ash- 
tree  buds,  there  rose  out  of  the  deep  fathoms,  bub- 
bles, that  quivered  to  the  surface  and  became  her  eyes. 
Then,  as  they  looked  at  him,  her  whole  face  rose  out 
of  the  water's  edge  and  last  of  all,  her  body  gleam- 
ing wet.  With  beckoning  finger  she  called  him  to 
her.  He  stepped  down  into  the  water  to  her  side. 

It  was  not  cold,  the  water,  as  it  closed  around 
him,  but  warm  and  heavy  like  a  viscous  stream.  The 
warmth  of  it  rose  to  his  brain,  stifling  the  will  in  him 
to  yet  turn  back.  But  still  her  finger  beckoned  him 
and  still  with  the  heavy  water  like  chains  about  his 
limbs,  he  struggled  on  to  reach  her  side.  Then, 
when  he  was  so  near  he  could  stretch  out  his  hand 
and  touch  her,  she  lay  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
slowly  caught  him  down  below  the  surface  of  the 
lake;  down,  down,  and  down  into  the  deep  dark- 
ness where  the  water  was  chill  as  melted  snow. 
There,  winding  his  own  arms  about  her,  he  clung 
to  her  for  the  warmth  her  body  gave.  And  still 
they  sank,  until  the  light  of  sky  was  blotted  out 
above  their  heads  and  darkness  came  as  a  thing  that 
falls  with  a  loud  voice,  deafening  in  the  ears. 

He  awoke,  his  body  trembling  as  he  lay  upon  his 
bed.  It  was  only  a  dream,  he  said,  but  until  the 
dawn  broke  out  across  the  hills,  he  could  not  shake 
off  the  warm  touch  of  her  arms  from  round  his 
neck. 

So  came  the  doubt  of  himself  out  of  the  essence  of 
that  dream  and  all  these  things  he  told  to  Malachi 
16     •  235 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

one  night  as  they  sat  together  over  the  smoking  fire 
of  peat. 

Malachi  sat  knotting  his  fingers  and  at  intervals 
spitting  into  the  fire  as  he  listened.  When  he  had 
made  an  end,  telling  him  this  and  that,  how  he  had 
said  good-bye  to  Anna  Quartermaine  in  the  garden 
at  Ballysaggartmore,  the  dream  he  had  dreamt  and 
all  its  lingering  insistence  in  his  mind,  Malachi  took 
the  old  iron  rod  that  served  him  to  poke  the  fire  and 
stirred  the  smoldering  peat.  The  crackling  sparks 
leapt  up  into  the  blackness  of  the  chimney  and  left 
a  glow  of  light  on  both  their  faces  that  seemed  to 
linger  about  them  after  the  flame  had  gone. 

"Wasn't  it  I  tellin'  ye,"  he  said  at  last — "wasn't 
it  I  tellin'  ye  the  nights  would  be  full  of  the  voice  of 
her  and  ye  going  to  the  South  to  set  yeer  eyes  on 
her  once  again.  'Tis  no  woman  will  take  the  part- 
ing words  from  a  man  wanst  the  heart  has  gone 
out  of  her,  an'  she  lookin'  east  and  west  in  the 
night  for  the  sight  of  him." 

Anthony  Sorel  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  blaze 
of  the  fire  and  shivered,  for  the  night  had  come 
about  them  chill  in  the  mountains  there  with  the 
late  frosts  of  May. 

"  'Tis  not  she  has  come  back  to  me,"  said  he  de- 
spondently, "but  the  call  of  my  own  self  crying  back 
out  of  the  years  that  are  behind  me.  And  if  it  comes 
to  me  more,  shan't  I  open  my  ears  to  it,  till  the  sight 
and  the  touch  of  her  grow  to  the  hunger  in  me  and 
all  the  great  hope  that  I've  had  in  my  soul  be  de- 
stroyed?" 

236 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  when,  like  a 
father  watching  over  his  child,  Malachi  sat  by  the 
chimney  corner,  never  taking  his  eyes  from  the 
stooping  figure  sitting  there,  motionless  and  de- 
jected. 

"  'Tis  yeerself  has  as  much  knowledge  of  women," 
he  said  after  a  while,  "as  I'd  be  having  meself  of 
the  four  corners  of  heaven,  or  God  Almighty  Him- 
self in  His  golden  chair.  Shure,  isn't  there  the  devil 
in  all  women  and  wouldn't  they  hold  a  man  the  way 
he'd  be  sthrainin'  and  pullin'  like  Dorgan's  jennet 
is  spanceled  and  tied  to  the  root  of  his  elder  tree?" 

So  they  sat  and  so  they  talked,  as  men  talk  of 
women,  when  the  fear  of  a  woman  is  upon  them  and 
only  courage  comes  to  them  as  they  sit  alone. 

"Am  I  never  to  know  a  woman  again?"  asked 
Anthony  Sorel  presently.  "Is  love  always  to  be  a 
thing  of  passionate  emotion  that  makes  me  slave 
instead  of  master  of  myself?  Have  I  lived  here  in 
the  mountains  these  two  years  for  nothing?" 

Malachi  cut  another  quid  of  tobacco  in  the  horny 
palm  of  his  hand.  The  click  of  the  knife  as  he  shut 
it  was  like  the  report  of  a  pistol  in  that  lonely  si- 
lence. 

"Would  ye  leave  yeer  cabin  up  there?"  he  asked 
bitterly  as  he  thrust  the  tobacco  in  the  accustomed 
corner  of  his  mouth.  "Would  ye  leave  yeer  cabin 
up  there  and  go  down  to  the  mad  diversions  of  the 
town  land  and  get  lost  like  John  Troy  is  traipsing 
the  big  cities  of  the  western  world  an'  he  with  the 
songs  dead  in  him  could  sing  like  a  mating  thrush?" 

237 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  shook  his  hand  above  his  head  with  prophetic 
gesture.  "I  tell  ye  this,"  said  he,  "that  the  day  ye 
come  down  from  the  windy  hollows  of  those  hills  is 
the  day  ye  come  down  from  the  heights  yeer  soul  has 
climbed  to  and  may  the  Almighty  God  keep  my  eyes 
from  the  light  of  that  day,  for  there's  no  such  man 
since  I  came  here  living  on  the  starving  land  could 
catch  the  music  out  of  the  wind  or  make  a  song  to 
try  the  heart  in  me."  1 

With  the  swift  impulse  of  youth  and  the  swifter 
impulse  of  a  sudden  exaltation  of  his  heart's  de- 
sire, Anthony  Sorel  stretched  out  his  hand  and  took 
the  horny  fingers  that  felt  like  knotted  wood  as  he 
held  them  in  his  own. 

"I  won't  come  down  from  the  mountains,"  he 
said  slowly.  "Not  until  I  can  stand  here  before 
God  and  swear  I  am  the  master  of  myself.  When 
that  day  comes  'tis  more  than  music  I  shall  catch 
out  of  the  mountain  winds;  'tis  more  than  trying 
the  heart  in  you  my  songs  will  be  doing  then.  Now 
her  voice  shall  cry  no  longer  to  me  in  the  still  night. 
I'll  put  the  wax  in  my  ears  and  bind  my  limbs  to  my 
cabin  door  and  you  shall  see  the  months  go  by  and 
I  coming  alone  to  the  spirit  of  mastery  in  my  soul. 
That's  my  oath  to  you  and  I " 

He  stopped  with  a  jerk  of  a  sudden  in  his  voice, 
for  out  of  the  penetrating  silence  of  the  surround- 
ing hills,  there  came  upon  his  ears  the  sound  of  a 

1  This  was  the  only  occasion  in  all  his  narrative  when  the  old  man 
showed  me  in  so  many  words  how  deep  was  his  affection  and  admira- 
tion for  Anthony  Sorel.  E.  T.  T. 

238 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

woman  singing  in  the  night  outside.  He  glanced  at 
Malachi,  when  he  knew  that  to  him  alone  the  voice 
was  audible.  The  old  man  stood  there  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  peat  fire,  no  more  than  expectancy  upon 
his  face  as  he  waited  for  Anthony  Sorel  to  make 
an  end  of  what  he  was  saying. 

It  was  evident,  Malachi  had  not  heard,  yet  the 
voice  was  drawing  nearer  and  the  sound  of  her  sing- 
ing was  vibrating  like  far  echoes  in  his  ears.  It  was 
then,  as  he  listened,  there  came  suddenly  to  his  mind 
the  words  of  Mrs.  Coyne  she  had  spoken  to  himself 
and  Anna  Quartermaine  that  night  in  Gorteeshall. 

"  'Tis  not  that  sort  of  wisdom  will  be  sthandin' 
to  ye,"  she  had  said,  "an'  ye  taken  by  the  faeries 
yeerself  where  the  roads  are  crossed  and  the  night 
comes  batterin'  with  the  wind  across  the  mountains 
at  yeer  little  door." 

And  not  those  words  only,  but  the  words  he  had 
said  in  the  garden  to  Anna  Quartermaine  herself, 

"A  man  only  sees  the  faeries  he  deserves.  If  ever 
I  see  a  faerie,  I  shall  know  that  I  am  failing  in  the 
strength  and  calmness  of  my  mind." 

Then  what  was  this  he  heard,  this  voice  of  a 
woman,  that  came  out  of  the  hills  where  never  a 
woman  at  that  hour  would  dare  to  walk  alone? 
Mary  Coyne  had  heard  the  music  of  the  faeries, 
had  seen  their  enchanted  fires,  had  followed  them 
until  they  and  death  had  overtaken  her.  Was  it 
this,  at  the  very  moment  of  its  highest  confidence, 
that  was  to  come  to  him? 

He  stood  by  the  fire  with  his  hand  half  lifted,  his 
239 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

eyes,  his  ears,  every  sense  in  him  brought  to  the 
service  of  listening  to  that  voice. 

"Yirra,  what's  on  ye?"  asked  Malachi. 

"Can't  you  hear?"  he  replied. 

Malachi  turned  his  head  to  one  side. 

"There  are  no  sounds  coming  out  of  this  night 
to  me,"  said  he.  "What  is  it  ye're  after  hearing 
yeerself  ?" 

"A  woman's  voice,  singing — out  there  on  the  side 
of  the  hill.  Now  it's  nearer — and  now  nearer. 
Can't  you  hear?  Listen  I  She  must  be  coming  this 
way." 

The  cry  of  a  curlew  flying  up  from  the  moors, 
broke  the  stillness  in  Malachi's  deaf  ears  and  then 
he  too  heard  the  faint  notes,  now  dropping  to  si- 
lence, now  rising  again,  the  voice  as  of  one  who 
picked  their  way  on  a  strange  and  venturesome  path. 

The  fear  of  the  unknown  that  comes  to  so  many 
of  us  and  swiftest  of  all  to  those  who  live  in  its  soli- 
tude amongst  the  mountains  and  in  the  tenantless 
corners  of  the  world,  came  like  a  rushing  and  a  chilly 
wind  upon  Malachi  then.  He  stood  in  the  quiver- 
ing half-lights  of  the  still  peat  fire  and  his  knees 
shook  together  and  his  eyes  sought  out  in  fear 
through  the  little  window  where  the  light  of  the 
moon  was  a  silvered  daylight  on  the  sloping  hills. 

Anthony  Sorel  stood  there  beside  him,  no  trem- 
bling in  his  limbs,  but  a  chill  whiteness  about  his  lips. 
His  eyes,  too,  were  set  upon  that  window  square 
where  the  moonshine  made  the  day  of  night  and  the 
pupils  of  his  eyes  were  large  and  black  and  his  lips 

240 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

were  parted  and  he  breathed  as  they  breathe  in  a 
room  of  death. 

And  nearer  and  nearer  came  the  singing  of  that 
voice,  rising  and  falling,  dropping  to  silence  as  a 
mountain  stream  that  finds  a  level  bed,  lifting  to 
music  as  when  it  tumbles  to  the  tiny  cataract. 

Not  one  word  passed  between  them  while  they 
waited,  waited  with  that  unspoken  belief  as  one 
thought  between  them,  in  the  sure  knowledge  she 
must  pass  that  way. 

At  last,  at  the  moment  when  they  must  see  her 
go  by,  Malachi  gripped  his  hand  upon  Anthony 
Sorel's  shoulder. 

"  'Tis  Queen  Maeve  herself,"  he  whispered — 
"an'  she  drawin'  the  souls  of  men  would  be  leaving 
the  sides  of  their  fires  to  be  followin'  her." 

Then,  through  the  window,  the  figure  of  a  woman 
cut  a  black  outline  against  the  whiteness  of  the 
moon.  For  a  moment  she  stopped  and  looked  within. 
Both  saw  her  face  thrust  close  against  the  pane. 
Her  eyes  distinguished  them  in  that  faint  darkness. 
They  stood  as  black  as  her  against  the  fire. 

"  'Tis  Mary  Coyne,"  whispered  Malachi.  "  'Tis 
Mary  Coyne  an'  she  coming  back  from  the  faeries 
to  tread  her  feet  once  more  on  the  sides  of  the 
hills." 

"  'Tis  not  Mary  Coyne,"  Anthony  Sorel  replied 
below  his  breath.  For  in  that  instant's  sight,  he  had 
seen  the  look  of  Anna  Quartermaine  in  the  hooded 
face.  Such  a  peasant  girl  as  Mary  Coyne  doubtless 
she  was;  but  there  was  that  look  of  Anna  Quarter- 

241 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

maine's  eyes,  of  Anna  Quartermaine's  lips  as  he  had 
seen  and  felt  them  in  his  dream. 

In  another  moment  she  had  gone  and  then  he 
knew  the  faerie  he  deserved  had  come  to  him.  This 
was  the  symbol  of  his  besetting  emotion  and  deep 
as  it  struck  the  fear  into  his  heart,  he  yet  found  his 
feet  being  drawn  from  him  to  the  door. 

"Where  are  ye  going,  Anthony  Sorel?"  cried 
Malachi  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"Out  on  the  hill,"  he  replied  and  there  was  all  the 
sound  of  dreams  in  his  voice — "out  on  the  hill  there 
to  bring  her  back." 

As  swift  as  his  shivering  limbs  would  let  him 
move,  Malachi  ran  to  lay  hands  upon  him  then. 

"For  the  love  of  God,"  he  begged,  "leave  her 
be !  Isn't  there  desthruction  in  the  singing  of  her 
voice,  and  wouldn't  the  eyes  of  her  be  takin'  ye  out 
of  the  world?  For  the  love  of  the  Almighty  God 
leave  her  be!" 

But  his  words  fell  like  drops  of  water  that  splash 
upon  the  stones.  Anthony  Sorel  had  flung  open  the 
door  and,  as  the  moonlight  rushed  in,  he  had  slipped 
out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE  moonlight  lay  wide  and  white  across  the 
hills.  It  cast  strange  shadows  behind  the 
stunted  thorn  trees,  the  prevailing  wind  had 
swept  out  like  a  woman's  hair.  In  the  distance, 
down  the  twisting  path  that  wound  through  the 
clumps  of  heather,  Anthony  Sorel  could  see  the  fig- 
ure of  the  peasant  woman  as  she  passed  away  to 
the  moors. 

Her  head  was  covered  with  a  shawl,  as  they  wear 
it  everywhere  in  the  South;  her  skirt  was  short;  her 
feet  were  bare.  Now  and  again  she  stumbled  as  she 
walked,  but  still  she  was  singing  and  the  notes  of 
her  voice  rose  up  into  the  height  of  the  hills  through 
the  clear  silver  of  the  air  as  the  song  of  a  lark  wings 
upwards  into  the  heavens. 

He  stood  outside  the  door  of  Malachi's  cabin, 
watching  her,  listening  to  her  song,  struggling  yet 
within  himself  to  the  obedience  of  Malachi's  im- 
portuning. But  back,  again  and  again,  came  the 
sight  of  her  face,  her  lips,  her  eyes,  as  when  she 
had  peered  through  the  window.  If  this  was  indeed 
a  faerie,  the  symbol  of  his  overwhelming  emotion, 
was  it  strength,  was  it  not  fear  in  the  heart  of  him 
holding  him  back  from  the  deliberate  encounter? 

The  very  emotion  she  had  stirred  in  him,  inter- 
preted his  hesitation  thus.  But  once  he  had  so  con- 

243 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

sidered  it,  he  left  no  time  to  waiting.  With  quick 
strides  he  was  after  her  down  the  mountain  path. 
There  was  her  dark  green  shawl,  the  sway  of  her 
short  skirt  but  half-a-mile  before  him.  When  there 
was  but  scarce  that  distance  left  between  them,  she 
stopped  and  turned.  He  could  see  her  face  in  the 
moonlight,  the  glint  of  her  white  feet  against  the 
dark  ground. 

She  was  waiting  for  him  to  come  up  with  her  and 
now,  as  he  drew  nearer,  fear  shortened  the  length 
of  his  stride.  All  the  eagerness  of  pursuit  that  had 
stirred  the  blood  in  his  veins  was  now  gone  from 
him.  There  was  a  chill  at  his  heart  and  over  and 
over  again  through  his  mind  ran  the  prophetic  words 
of  Mrs.  Coyne,  "  'Tis  not  that  sort  of  wisdom  will 
be  sthandin'  to  ye  and  ye  taken  by  the  faeries  where 
the  roads  are  crossed." 

Where  the  roads  were  crossed !  And  there  stood 
that  dark  figure  with  its  pale  face  and  still  white 
hands — there  it  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  cross  roads 
that  lead  down  into  the  valley  and  stretch  across  the 
whole  length  of  the  mountains'  feet. 

As  he  came  within  some  twenty  yards  or  so  of 
her,  he  stopped  altogether  as  though  consciously 
upon  the  edge  of  that  enchanted  faerie  circle  encom- 
passing her  about.  There  he  stood  and  through 
the  moonlight  stared  at  her,  his  lips  set  closely,  his 
eyes  kindled  with  the  unknown  fear  that  was  in 
him. 

For  some  moments  in  silence  they  stood  thus,  the 
moonlight  and  the  mountains  all  about  them  and 

244 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

those  white,  silvered  ribbands  of  the  roads  unrolling 
away  at  either  side  till  they  became  mere  threads 
the  distance  wound  upon  a  vanishing  reel. 

With  a  conscious  effort  at  last,  he  forced  the 
sound  of  his  voice  into  the  dry  hollow  of  his  throat. 
He  felt  the  words  awkward  and  stumbling  on  his 
tongue  and  the  sound  of  them  in  that  still  air  of 
the  night  was  like  the  voice  of  one  who  speaks  out 
of  dreams  far  off  in  sleep. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"  'Tis  aiqual  to  God  who  I'd  be,"  said  she,  "and 
ye  followin'  me  in  the  lonesomeness  of  these  hills 
are  steeped  and  drowned  in  silence,  the  way  I  could 
hear  ye  steppin'  over  the  heather  like  thunder  comin' 
on  me." 

Her  voice  was  as  still  and  gentle  as  the  winds  that 
come  in  May.  It  might  have  been  Anna  Quarter- 
maine  herself  speaking  to  him,  for  even  to  her  voice, 
though  in  the  deep  richness  of  that  inland  brogue, 
there  was  the  same  fatal  resemblance  he  had  seen 
as  she  looked  through  the  window-pane  into  Mala- 
chi's  little  room. 

"What  are  you  doing  out  here  on  the  mountains, 
now  at  this  hour  of  the  night?" 

He  put  his  questions  in  all  the  uncertain  note  of 
fear.  She  stood  there  by  a  gap  in  the  loose  stone 
wall  that  edged  the  road  and  there  was  laughter  in 
her  eyes  because  of  his  fear  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"Come  close  to  me  now,"  said  she,  "if  ye'd  need 
to  be  knowin'  so  much  about  me.  Shure  what's 
the  fear  on  ye?  Come  close  to  me  now  and  I  only 

245 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

a  woman  is  sthandin'  here  in  this  lone  corner  of 
the  hills." 

"I'll  not  come  closer,"  he  replied.  "Don't  I  know 
you've  come  out  of  the  lake  up  there  in  Knockshuna- 
hallion?  Didn't  I  see  your  eyes  and  your  face  com- 
ing up  out  of  the  water  to  me  in  my  dreams  these 
two  nights  gone  and  didn't  you  draw  me  with  your 
body  into  the  water  till  all  the  blackness  of  it  was 
closed  over  us  and  I  in  your  arms  sinking  down  into 
the  depths  till  the  darkness  was  thunder  in  my 
ears?" 

"Did  I  do  that?"  said  she,  peering  with  her  eyes 
into  his  face  that  was  turned  from  the  moon  and 
black  in  the  darkness  of  its  own  shadow. 

"You  did,"  he  replied,  "but  I've  had  the  warn- 
ing of  you  that  comes  now  shouting  in  my  ears." 

"Ye've  had  warnin'  of  me?  There's  not  one  in 
these  mountains  would  be  knowin'  the  sight  of  me 
this  night." 

"  'Twas  not  in  knowledge  of  you,"  he  replied, 
"but  the  old  woman  in  Gorteeshall  who  told  the 
faeries  would  take  me  and  I  losing  all  the  wisdom 
I'd  got  out  of  the  silence  of  these  hills  and  the 
hunger  of  my  own  heart  for  the  truth.  But  she  told 
wrong,  for  there's  strength  in  me  yet  can  destroy  the 
power  of  such  as  you." 

"What  would  be  the  power  of  a  poor  girrl  the 
likes  of  me  would  have  over  a  young  fella  the  likes 
of  ye  is  sthrong  and  lithesome  wid  the  power  of 
men?" 

"  'Tis  no  power  of  men,"  said  he,  "would  be 
246 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

holding  to  me  now.  Isn't  it  the  very  power  in  a 
man  is  weakness  in  him  that  time  when  the  passion 
in  him  comes  dropping  weak  like  water  in  his  veins? 
'Tis  not  because  I'm  strong  and  lithesome  shall  I 
be  able  to  shut  my  ears  and  hear  no  voice  of  a  woman 
calling  to  me  across  the  hollows  of  these  hills,  but 
because  there  is  the  truth  in  me  and  while  there's 
that,  I'll  have  no  fear  of  all  the  faeries  in  the 
world." 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  turned  with  his  gaze 
across  the  sweep  of  the  mountains  and  the  moonlight 
fell  on  him.  She  saw  the  thin  light  of  his  lips  and 
the  glittering  light  of  his  eyes  and  she  threw  back 
her  head,  laughing  softly  for  the  fear  that  was  in 
him. 

"Isn't  the  fear  white  with  ye  now?"  said  she  and 
there  was  the  laughter  come  into  her  voice  to  taunt 
him.  "Come  here  to  me  now  if  there's  no  fright 
on  ye  and  tell  me  the  voice  of  the  woman  is  calling 
to  ye  now  when  the  night  comes  down  over  the  starv- 
ing land.  Come  here  to  me  now  and  tell  me 
that." 

"I'll  not  stir  my  feet  from  where  I  am,"  said  he, 
"for  you  know  well  the  voice  of  the  woman  it  is. 
Isn't  the  light  of  her  eyes  in  your  eyes  there  and 
aren't  her  lips  the  red  of  your  lips  and  haven't  you 
stolen  the  beauty  that's  in  her  face  to  come  here 
tempting  me  into  the  mountains?" 

In  a  sudden  change  his  voice  took  power  and 
command  as  he  came  to  the  mastery  of  his  fear. 

"Take  the  shawl  off  your  head,"  he  demanded, 
247 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"and  let  me  see  is  your  hair  the  color  and  softness 
of  hers." 

"How  did  ye  know  was  her  hair  so  soft?"  she 
asked  quickly,  "an'  ye  keeping  yeer  hands  from  the 
touch  of  her  and  starvin'  yeer  eyes  in  the  windy 
gaps  of  these  hills?" 

"Would  it  need  the  touch  of  my  hands?"  said  he. 
"Isn't  it  the  most  fatal  beauty  of  a  woman  a  man 
will  find  in  the  secret  of  his  heart  where  the  evil 
that's  in  him  comes  singing  the  songs  of  passion  in 
his  ears?  Take  off  the  shawl  from  your  head  and 
let  me  see  all  the  beauty  you've  stolen  to  bring  here 
crying  out  to  me  this  night." 

"Come  yeerself  to  me  now,"  she  answered.  "Let 
yeer  own  fingers  unknot  it,  if  ye  have  the  mind  to 
see." 

One  step  he  took  towards  her,  no  more.  She 
stood  leaning  against  the  loose  stone  wall,  her  head 
thrown  back,  inviting  him  to  unloose  the  shawl  about 
her  head.  But  the  fear  had  come  back  upon  him 
now.  He  trembled  as  he  stood  and  the  will  in  him 
to  resist  shook  him  in  its  conflict  with  the  desire  if 
only  to  touch  her  with  his  hands. 

"Would  ye  have  fear  of  a  girrl  is  lost  and  wan- 
derin'  on  the  mountain  roads?  Yirra,  glory  be  to 
God,  wouldn't  it  be  safe  I'd  be  and  no  harm  comin' 
to  me  at  the  fall  of  night  if  I  could  walk  these  ways 
and  bring  such  fear  to  the  men  would  be  meetin' 
me?" 

He  looked  above  him  up  the  twisting  path  to 
where  the  faint  light  in  Malachi's  cottage  window 

248 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

pricked  its  point  of  orange  in  the  silvered  night. 
There  he  wished  he  was  then  and  the  longing  was 
near  to  him  that  he  had  listened  to  Malachi's  words. 
For  now  the  desire  was  strong  in  him  to  bend  her 
in  the  strength  of  his  arms,  when  all  that  he  had 
striven  for  in  those  years  of  his  solitude  would  be 
gone  from  him  as  water  goes  from  a  leaking  pot, 
and  the  ideal  he  had  raised  of  Anna  Quartermaine 
in  his  mind  would  be  further  from  him  than  ever. 

It  was  the  strength  of  his  will  he  cried  for  then 
and  the  more  his  eyes  fed  upon  the  sight  of  her,  the 
more  faint  it  grew  within  him.  For  in  this  it  was 
the  temptation  lay,  that  she  had  all  the  beauty  of 
Anna  Quartermaine,  yet  there  in  that  peasant's 
dress,  with  short-hung  skirt  and  pale  bare  feet,  gave 
him  no  moment  of  that  quiet  mind  he  had  so  firmly 
set  his  ideal  upon. 

Here  indeed  was  the  symbol  of  his  besetting  emo- 
tion; for  now  he  knew  how  those  two  years  of  soli- 
tude had  not  completed  the  transfiguration  of  his 
soul.  There  still  was  the  nature  in  him  of  the  self- 
conscious  man,  a  slave  to  the  passions  the  world 
had  born  in  him. 

With  her  mind,  or  with  all  that  which  he  believed 
of  it,  Anna  Quartermaine  had  carried  him  still  higher 
in  the  ambition  of  his  soul.  But  now  he  had  fallen 
to  this,  this  sudden  and  most  bitter  knowledge  of 
himself.  He  was  not  fit  to  love  her  yet.  His  dream 
indeed  had  shaken  the  deeper  confidence  in  himself. 
But  now  as  he  stood  there  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 
watching  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  laughter  as  she 

249 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

laughed,  he  knew  too  well  how  long  the  way 
must  be  before  he  should  reach  the  mastery  of  him- 
self. 

With  a  giant  effort  of  his  will  in  that  moment, 
he  summoned  strength  to  him  and  held  out  his  hand 
before  him  as  though  to  keep  distance  between  them. 
So  he  steeled  the  sight  of  his  eyes,  willing  himself 
to  see  only  with  the  clearer  vision  of  his  soul. 

"If  it  were  fear  of  you,"  he  said  slowly  at  last, 
and  measured  his  words  to  keep  the  needful  bal- 
ance of  his  mind,  "if  it  were  fear  of  you,  should  I 
be  standing  as  I  am  with  only  the  night  between 
me  and  the  thing  I  feared?" 

"What  fear  is  on  ye  then?"  she  asked  in  her 
gentlest  voice.  "Shure  wouldn't  I  be  putting  me 
arms  about  ye  and  holding  ye  like  a  babe  has  the 
hand  of  Death  on  its  little  throat?" 

"  Tis  fear  of  myself  is  on  me,"  said  he,  "the 
fear  of  a  man  when  he  comes  to  the  evil  that's  in 
him  and  sees  vanishing  the  power  of  his  soul  like  a 
ship  put  out  to  sea."  Then  of  a  sudden  without 
warning,  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried  out  in  the 
pain  of  conflict  in  his  mind.  "Get  back  into  the 
night,"  he  cried  aloud.  "Take  your  eyes  away  from 
me  and  your  lips  that  smile  and  the  songs  that  you 
sing.  It's  not  in  one  hour  I'll  go  back  to  the  man 
that  I  was." 

"Is  it  drive  me  away?"  she  whispered,  "and  I  a 
woman  alone  in  the  night  with  all  the  length  of  the 
roads  and  the  wild  hills  in  the  face  of  me?" 

"It  is  driving  you  away,"  he  replied,  "and  with 
250 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

the  power  of  God,  I  shall  never  set  these  eyes  on 
you  again." 

She  turned  as  though  pride  had  come  to  her  and, 
stepping  through  the  gap  of  the  loose  stone  wall, 
she  climbed  down  into  the  road.  Then  she  looked 
up  at  him  once  more,  standing  there  black  above  her. 

"  'Tis  more  than  ever  a  man  has  wished  of  me 
before,"  she  said,  "and  'twill  be  a  mighty  thing  the 
power  of  God  will  be  if  yeer  eyes  never  set  glance 
on  me  again.  Keep  your  watch  over  the  hills  and 
through  the  slow  hours  of  the  night,  for  the  power 
of  God  is  a  mighty  thing,  Anthony  Sorel,  but  it  sets 
no  stay  on  the  life  a  man  must  take  or  leave  for 
himself." 

She  knew  his  name!  He  heard  the  sound  of  it 
strange  as  it  left  her  lips  and  came  across  the  still 
air  of  the  night  to  his  ears. 

"Who  gave  you  the  name  I  have?"  he  cried  out 
to  her,  but  only  her  laughter  came  back  in  answer 
to  his  cry,  her  laughter  when  it  turned  into  the  song 
in  her  voice  once  more  as  she  swung  her  way  down 
the  hill  road  with  her  bare  feet  glistening  beneath 
her  skirt  and  her  head  thrown  back  in  a  young  joy 
of  the  light  of  the  moon. 

A  belt  of  oak  trees  flung  shadows  over  the  road 
where  it  turned  down  to  the  breadth  of  the  moors 
and  into  these  shadows  as  into  a  house  he  watched 
her  figure  go  and,  as  a  door  that  shuts  out  the  night, 
they  closed  about  her. 

He  still  stood  with  his  eyes  straining  to  follow  her 
as  she  went,  but  saw  her  no  more  again  that  night* 

17 


CHAPTER  XV 

ANTHONY  SOREL  did  not  return  to  Mal- 
achi's  cottage  that  night,  but  went  back  to 
his  own  cabin  in  the  silence  and  the  solitude 
of  Knockshunahallion  where  all  the  hours  until 
morning  came  he  sat  contemplating  the  thing  he 
had  seen  and  the  meaning  it  was  to  him. 

Now  it  seemed  as  if  the  spirits  of  faerie  were 
all  about  him.  An  endless  music  was  in  his  ears 
which  now  was  low  and  soft  as  it  might  be  the  wind 
when  it  plays  about  the  hollows  and  the  crevices 
and  then  was  loud  and  deafening  to  be  heard  like 
the  noise  of  thunder  rolling  across  the  sky.  He  sat 
at  his  window  and  saw  strange  lights  across  the  hills 
and  there  came  to  the  sense  of  his  nostrils  soft  per- 
fumes like  memories  he  strove  with  all  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  mind  to  recall  but  could  never  bring  back 
into  the  certain  presence  of  his  thoughts. 

And  all  this  while  till  the  morning  came,  he  re- 
mained motionless  at  the  little  square  of  his  window, 
his  eyes  turned  across  the  moors  below  towards 
Ballysaggartmore  and  sometimes  they  were  closed 
and  sometimes  they  were  open  as  with  one  who  drifts 
between  waking  and  sleep  yet  is  never  in  the  clear 
region  of  his  consciousness. 

At  times  he  would  speak  beneath  his  breath  and 
again  at  times  cry  out  with  a  loud  voice  as  if  in 

252 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

pain;  and  once  he  cried  the  name  of  Anna  Quarter- 
maine,  at  which  he  trembled  in  himself  as  the  echoes 
of  it  beat  from  wall  to  wall  of  his  little  cabin  like 
a  caged  thing  struggling  to  be  free. 

So  the  night  passed  and  the  next  day  he  walked 
about  in  the  upper  heights  of  the  mountains,  cease- 
lessly moving  from  one  still  place  to  another  until 
all  the  energy  in  his  body  was  a  dead  thing  to  him 
and  he  returned  at  evening  exhausted  to  his  cabin 
door. 

That  night  he  slept,  but  the  mist  of  dreams  was 
about  his  eyes  and  in  the  ceaseless  industry  of  his 
brain.  But  now  he  knew  the  woman  it  was,  who 
came  beckoning  to  him  out  of  the  night  of  his 
dreams.  In  his  sleep,  though  there  was  no  power  in 
him  to  resist  her,  he  knew  that  in  the  morning  with 
his  walking,  all  the  power  that  he  had  would  re- 
turn. 

The  next  day,  this  time  when  it  was  scarce  sun- 
rise, he  set  out  upon  his  wanderings  once  more. 
Sleep  had  brought  him  no  rest  but  with  the  daylight 
had  come  energy  and  the  still  burning  vigor  in  his 
soul.  Taking  bread  and  milk  from  a  cottage  here, 
a  cabin  there,  he  went  on  his  way  without  thought  of 
direction  until,  as  the  sun  had  begun  its  steady  pas- 
sage down  the  sky,  he  found  his  feet  turning  on  the 
road  to  Ballysaggartmore. 

At  that  realization,  all  movement  in  him  was 
brought  to  sudden  arrest;  for  in  that  moment  had 
come  back  to  his  mind  one  of  those  perfumes  that 
had  touched  his  senses  like  memories  which  now  he 

253 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

could  recall.  It  was  the  scent  of  the  violets  in  Anna 
Quartermaine's  garden,  of  the  violets  and  all  the 
flowers  which  that  morning  had  flung  their  odor 
into  the  warm  air. 

He  stood  trembling  at  the  thought  that  his  senses 
and  all  the  conscious  instincts  of  his  body  had  been 
so  much  alive,  even  then.  Did  it  mean  that  never 
had  he  come  within  sight  of  the  ambition  of  his 
soul?  Did  it  mean  that  all  this  mastery  of  his  emo- 
tions had  been  a  foolish,  empty  dream;  that  all  a 
thousand  years  of  solitude  would  never  destroy  the 
conscious  man  in  him;  that  he  was  the  same  that 
day  as  he  had  ever  been,  as  every  man  had  been 
from  the  beginning  and  still  would  be? 

With  a  cry  of  pain  which  no  restraint  in  him 
could  silence  or  subdue,  he  swiftly  turned  upon  his 
heel  and  set  his  back  towards  the  place  where  his 
ideal  lay,  fearing  the  self  in  him  that  could  destroy 
the  thing  he  cherished  most 

Now  he  was  coming  to  Ballyduff,  where  the  road 
turns  by  a  forge  and  bends  up  to  a  mere  cart  track 
across  the  wild  acreage  of  moors.  This  way  he  went 
nor  stopped  again  until  he  stood  knocking  on  the 
door  of  Malachi's  cabin  on  Crow  Hill. 

In  the  act  of  making  his  evening  tea,  the  old  man 
heard  the  falling  sound  and  set  down  his  kettle  in 
the  embers.  A  light  of  gladness  was  in  his  eyes  as 
he  went  to  the  door,  for  he  knew  well  whose  knock- 
ing it  must  be. 

"God  be  wid  this  day,"  said  he  as  he  opened  the 
door  and  beheld  Anthony  Sorel  standing  there  and 

254 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

then  he  saw  the  light  that  shone  on  his  face  from 
the  damp  sweat  that  was  on  him. 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  said  he,  closing  the  door — 
"In  the  name  of  God  what's  on  ye  to  be  sweating 
like  a  young  stallion  is  fretting  the  earth  for  his 
mare?  What's  on  ye,  in  the  name  of  God?  Haven't 
I  seen  ye  beyond  over  and  up  in  the  heights  of  the 
hills  and  ye  traveling  east  and  west  like  a  man  is 
pursued  by  all  the  devils  of  the  dark  places?" 

He  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  sat  him  down 
in  his  own  chair  and  stood  over  him  like  a  shepherd 
that  stands  over  the  sheep  he  has  found  destroyed 
and  exhausted  in  the  black  shadows  of  the  glen. 

"What's  after  ye,  Anthony  Sorel?"  he  asked  pres- 
ently, for  in  the  hands  that  covered  the  sweating 
brows  and  the  knees  that  shook  as  he  leant  upon 
them,  the  old  man  could  see  that  agony  of  spirit  by 
which  he  was  consumed.  "What's  after  ye?"  he 
repeated. 

"  'Tis  myself  is  after  me,"  Anthony  Sorel  replied. 
"  'Tis  by  myself  I  am  pursued.  All  these  days 
since  that  witch  brought  the  beauty  of  the  woman 
in  the  valley  up  to  me  here  in  the  mountains,  have 
I  been  set  upon  by  the  man  that  is  in  me  and  cannot 
bring  him  down.  From  sunrise  to  the  fall  of  the 
night  I  have  walked  the  untrodden  tracks  of  the 
mountains  to  kill  the  thoughts  that  are  in  me  with 
fatigue.  But  in  sleep  I  am  not  alone."  He  wrung 
his  hands  before  him  as  many  a  man  indeed  has 
done.  "What  has  come  to  me?"  he  cried  out. 
"Didn't  I  say  good-bye  to  her  because  I  knew  I  could 

255 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

love  her  with  the  soul  that  was  in  me!  And  now 
is  this  curse  of  the  body  I  have,  to  stand  between 
me  and  the  thing  I  love?" 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  again  and  there 
came  once  more  the  rush  of  the  music  to  his  ears 
and  in  the  eyes  his  fingers  pressed  to  blindness,  great 
lights  were  flashing  in  a  sea  of  burning  red. 

Malachi  spat  the  juice  of  the  tobacco  from  his 
mouth. 

"Why  didn't  ye  take  the  words  av  an  old  man," 
said  he,  "was  after  telling  ye  'tis  not  in  the  ways  of 
a  woman  to  be  parting  her  life  from  the  man  her 
heart  is  coming  to?  May  the  Lord  Almighty  have 
mercy  on  ye  for  the  stricken  man  that  ye  are. 
Haven't  ye  chosen  a  road  is  sore  to  the  feet  of  a 
man,  must  be  walking  in  the  light  of  the  day  and 
the  drift  of  the  night  and  won't  the  soul  be 
desthroyed  in  ye  to  leave  it?  Is  it  the  way  ye're 
going  maybe  to  leave  the  quiet  places  of  these  hills 
and  the  wisdom  that  is  come  to  ye?  Is  that  the  way 
wid  ye,  Anthony  Sorel?  Are  the  soft  breasts  of  her 
softer  than  the  moss  to  yeer  head  when  ye'd  be 
sleepin'  alone  on  the  hills  at  night,  with  the  great 
darkness  of  the  starry  skies  like  the  weight  of  dew, 
so  gentle  it  would  be  on  the  lids  of  yeer  eyes?  Are 
the  lips  of  her  sweeter  than  the  lips  of  a  sthone, 
would  be  dropping  sweet  water  from  a  mountain 
stream?  Are  the  eyes  of  her  brighter  than  the  stars 
of  God  are  lighting  like  candles  about  his  golden 
chair?" 

The  note  of  his  voice  had  fallen  to  a  tone  of  in- 
256 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

finite  sorrow  as  he  spoke.  In  all  the  strange  jour- 
neys he  had  made,  he  had  seen  the  souls  of  men  so 
beaten  by  the  storm,  so  driven  before  the  winds  of 
passion  as  Anthony  Sorel  was  driven  then.  And 
he  knew  how  man  is  a  man  and  God  is  a  spirit,  yet 
never  had  he  known  the  spirit  in  a  man  so  strong 
as  he  had  seen  it  in  Anthony  Sorel.  But  now  he 
could  tell  the  end  as  surely  as  he  had  told  it  in 
others. 

"Is  it  caught  she  has  ye?"  he  went  on  in  the  same 
mournful  note  of  his  voice.  "Is  it  caught  she  has 
ye  in  the  long  delay  of  her  arms?  Speak  the  truth 
to  me  now  the  way  ye'd  be  speaking  to  the  Lord 
God  has  ears  from  the  far  corners  of  His  lonesome 
Heaven.  Is  this  the  last  these  old  eyes  will  be  seeing 
of  ye  on  the  hungry  slopes  of  these  hills?" 

Anthony  Sorel  came  to  his  feet  that  still  were 
weak  beneath  him  as  he  stood,  and  his  head  was 
thrown  back  and  the  fire  of  God  was  akindle  once 
more  in  his  eyes. 

"  'Tis  the  last  ye'll  see  of  me,  Malachi,"  he  said, 
"but  'tis  not  to  be  drowned  in  her  kisses  I'm  gone. 
There  are  further  parts  of  the  earth  than  this,  where 
the  winds  of  God  would  never  find  the  ears  of  a 
man  to  be  fighting  his  soul.  I'll  go  out  far  into  the 
barren  West  where  never  a  goat  could  find  its  food. 
'Tis  then  when  the  nights  drop  still  with  the  summer 
moon,  you'll  hear  the  songs  I'd  be  singing  as  I  come 
past  the  man  that  is  in  me  to  the  very  feet  of  God 
Himself.  I'll  go  far  from  here  and  in  two  days 
these  mountains  will  lose  sight  of  me  and  'tis  not  a 

257 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

woman  nor  the  man  that  is  in  me  shall  destroy  the 
ideal  she's  set  up  in  my  mind." 

He  took  Malachi's  shoulders  in  his  trembling 
hands  and,  as  he  looked  in  his  eyes,  there  was  a  drop 
of  sweat  that  rolled  off  his  shining  forehead  and 
split  itself  upon  the  floor.  And  Malachi  told  him 
of  a  charm  that  would  keep  the  evil  faeries  off  of 
him  and  then  he  went  out  of  the  house  and  came  to 
his  own  cabin  by  Knockshunahallion. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ALL  the  next  day,  Anthony  Sorel  made  prepara- 
tion for  his  going,  but  there  were  not  many 
things  that  he  would  take  with  him,  having 
no  worldly  goods  but  the  crucifix  that  he  had  nailed 
to  the  wall,  the  chairs,  the  table,  the  candlesticks  of 
brass  and  the  bed  that  old  Heggarty  had  died  in. 

It  was  not  the  preparation  of  collecting  his  prop- 
erty that  he  made,  for  all  these  things  he  would 
leave,  except  the  crucifix  and  that  he  would  carry 
under  the  cover  of  his  coat  when  he  went  walking 
the  world  again  to  find  another  resting-place.  It 
was  the  severance  of  his  mind  from  the  place  that 
had  grown  upon  him  which  was  his  occupation  all 
the  length  of  that  day. 

In  the  early  morning,  while  the  sun  was  yet  hid- 
den by  the  hills  like  a  furnace  rising  out  of  the  deep 
hollows  into  flame,  he  rose  from  his  bed  and  went 
up  to  the  lake  where  the  woman  with  the  beauty  of 
Anna  Quartermaine  had  first  appeared  to  him  in  all 
the  dreams  that  were  coming  to  his  sleep.  This  he 
did  to  test  the  strength  he  had  in  his  going,  for  there 
yet  were  voices  calling  to  him  to  be  staying  where  he 
was;  crying  out  that  he  was  born  a  man  and  the 
joys  and  the  pleasures  of  a  man  were  his  by  the  right 
of  the  mother  who  had  borne  him. 

It  was  when  he  saw  the  black  water  and  the  bub- 
259 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

•m> 

bles  rising  white  to  the  surface,  that  in  his  dreams 
had  been  her  eyes,  he  knew  how  much  strength 
had  gone  out  of  him,  for  his  breath  came  quickly 
and  he  felt  the  warmth  of  her  arms  she  had  put  about 
him  and  there  came  again,  rushing  to  his  ears,  the 
noise  ef  the  music  as  the  darkness  of  the  water  had 
closed  over  them. 

By  the  side  of  the  lake  then  he  sat  down  and 
what  had  been  prayers  in  any  other  man  were 
thoughts  and  wonderings  in  him.  And  he  pressed 
his  eyes  to  blindness  as  he  had  done  in  Malachi's 
cabin,  but  could  not  shut  out  the  sound  of  the  voices 
that  called  to  him  or  the  warm  lights  that  brought 
heat  to  the  blood  in  his  veins. 

He  was  knowing  then  how  near  he  had  come  to 
the  destruction  of  all  that  was  highest  in  his  soul 
and  he  rose  from  the  stone  on  which  he  had  been 
sitting  and  came  down  the  mountain  to  his  cabin 
again,  saying  all  the  time  as  he  walked:  "To- 
morrow must  see  me  gone — to-morrow  must  see  me 
gone." 

But  when  it  came  towards  evening  and  the  light 
was  paling  and  the  sky  had  faded  to  primrose,  he 
looked  at  his  bed  and  feared  the  last  night  that  he 
must  sleep  upon  it  for  the  dreams  that  might  come 
to  him  and  the  warm  beauty  of  the  woman  they  might 
bring  to  his  side. 

It  was  the  last  strength  he  needed  to  keep  him  to 
the  determination  his  mind  was  set  upon,  yet  it  was 
the  last  strength  he  knew  was  failing  in  him  then. 
Another  night  of  his  dreams  and  in  the  morning 

260 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

he  knew  that  courage  might  well  have  gone  from 
him. 

At  the  square  of  his  little  window  he  sat,  looking 
down  the  mountain  slope  and  across  the  moorlands 
to  the  cluster  of  trees  that  hid  the  faint  roofs  of  the 
houses  in  Ballysaggartmore.  And  as  he  looked,  the 
name  of  the  woman  whose  beauty  had  brought  him 
both  pain  and  destruction  came  hesitating  to  his  lips, 
for  fear  of  the  longing  it  might  bring  to  him. 

But  as  he  said  it,  there  seemed  to  return  to  him 
that  strength  when  he  had  said  good-bye  to  her  in 
her  happy  garden.  He  gave  it  leave  to  pass  his 
lips  again  and  then  he  knew  where  he  could  find  the 
strength  to  face  that  night  alone. 

One  moment's  sight  of  her — the  sight,  no  more — 
would  restore  once  again  the  power  of  his  ideal, 
would  equip  him  with  courage  to  bear  the  burden 
of  that  last  and  lonely  night. 

He  rose,  quick  to  his  feet,  strong  in  the  warmth 
of  his  new  conviction.  She  had  inspired  him  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  truth  he  had  learnt  in  those  years 
of  his  solitude.  Then  it  was  she  again  who  should 
arm  him  against  the  fears  and  the  terrors  that  beset 
him  now.  It  was  only  he  who  had  failed  when  he 
had  returned  from  their  last  parting,  only  the  man 
in  him  that  had  cried  out  after  the  beauty  of  her 
he  had  set  aside.  So  near  had  his  failure  been, 
that  the  faeries  had  heard  the  voice  of  his  weakness 
and  nearly  had  the  prophetic  words  of  Mrs.  Coyne 
that  night  come  true. 

But  now,  seeing  her  once  again,  would  not  she  who 
261 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

had  brought  him  so  close  to  the  knowledge  of  truth, 
bring  him  strength  until  he  could  put  the  miles  of 
the  mountains,  the  rivers  and  the  winding  roads 
between  them? 

He  strode  out  fast  from  his  cabin  door  and  his 
feet  were  swift  and  sure  down  the  side  of  the  hills 
to  the  moor. 

The  evening  light  of  primrose  was  turning  to 
sullen  mauve.  Across  the  mountains  a  summer 
storm  was  rolling  up  the  heavy  banks  of  clouds. 
He  had  no  covering  to  his  head  and  took  no  heed 
of  the  sudden  murmurs  of  the  wind  that  rose  a  warn- 
ing in  his  ears. 

All  that  his  mind  was  holding  now  was  the  thought 
of  the  virtue  this  sight  of  her  once  more  would  bring 
him.  From  the  window  in  his  cabin,  Malachi  saw 
him  go  and  beat  his  hands  upon  his  head  lest  evil 
might  befall  him. 

"May  the  Holy  Mother  of  God  and  all  the  saints 
be  guarding  the  feet  of  him  now,"  he  muttered, 
"and  may  the  Lord  God  turn  his  back  to  desthruc- 
tion  through  the  long  hours  of  the  night." 

So,  with  Malachi's  blessing  that  never  reached 
his  ears,  he  went  seeking  the  blessing  of  her  he  had 
placed  in  the  holy  place  of  his  soul  where  men  en- 
shrine the  mother  they  love  and  those  few  women 
of  the  world  who  are  beyond  reproach. 

The  clouds  were  up  and  about  the  sky  when  he 
came  by  the  mountain  footpath  into  Ballysaggart- 
more.  They  wrapped  the  trees  in  darkness  and 
all  beneath  them  was  a  heavy  gloom.  No  rain  was 

262 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

falling,  but  out  of  the  far  east  came  sudden  bursts 
of  light  that  heralded  up  the  rising  storm. 

It  was  never  his  intention  that  night  to  speak  to 
Anna  Quartermaine,  wherefore,  there  being  none 
about  upon  the  Lismore  road,  he  climbed  a  low  wall 
and  dropped  into  the  garden  where  he  had  walked 
with  her  before. 

A  light  was  burning  in  the  room  he  knew  she 
sat  in  and,  creeping  down  the  garden  path,  he  came 
to  the  very  window  where  it  was. 

The  scent  of  the  flowers,  now  roses  and  the  lupin 
tree,  was  like  an  incense  heavy  in  the  air.  He  made 
his  way  through  it  as  though  faintness  must  come 
to  him  before  he  reached  the  object  that  he  sought. 

A  chink  in  the  blind  gave  him  sight  within  and 
there  she  sat,  with  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes 
half  closed,  just  watching  the  quiet  progress  of  her 
thoughts  as  comes  with  idle  meditation. 

Never  had  he  seen  her  dressed  as  then,  in  a  soft 
loose  gown  with  shortened  sleeves  and  hanging  silken 
belt  that  gently  bound  her  waist  around  and  fell 
down  to  her  feet. 

"How  have  I  dared  to  love  her  less!"  he  whis- 
pered in  his  breath  and  the  very  softness  of  the 
line  of  her  bare  arm,  the  shoulders  turned  towards 
him  and  even  the  faint  color  of  her  skin  brought 
him  in  wonder  and  amazement  to  the  sense  of  sacred 
things,  as  when  a  man  looks  upon  a  picture  of  the 
Mother  of  God  feeding  the  Infant  Christ  at  her 
naked  breast. 

So  he  had  meant  to  think  of  her;  so  he  thought 
263 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  her  still  and  more  than  ever  when  he  saw  her 
sitting  there.  She  was  the  embodiment  of  all  the 
highest  that  his  soul  could  reach  to,  just  as  that 
faerie  in  the  mountains  was  the  symbol  of  the  over- 
whelming emotions  whereby  he  was  a  man. 

Then,  as  he  watched  her,  came  all  the  strength  he 
needed  to  his  soul  and  he  would  have  had  courage 
to  speak  with  her  then,  for  the  fear  of  himself  had 
gone  out  of  him;  but  because  of  the  grandness  of 
the  room  where  she  sat  and  the  fine  clothes  that 
were  on  her  and  the  string  of  pearls  that  was  about 
her  bare  neck,  he  did  not  dare,  but  stood  there  in 
silence  with  watching  eyes  looking  through  the  chink 
in  the  blind. 

It  was  presently  there  came  a  dog  barking  at  him 
from  beyond  the  house  and  it  stood  in  the  garden 
some  yards  from  where  he  was  and  snarled  at  him, 
but  he  had  no  fear  of  it  and  never  took  his  eyes 
away  from  the  chink  in  the  blind. 

At  the  sound  of  the  dog  barking,  she  looked  up 
and,  as  it  snarled  outside  in  the  darkness,  she  rose  to 
her  feet  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  window  where 
he  was  standing. 

And  it  was  as  if  some  spell  were  cast  on  him 
where  he  stood,  for,  though  he  had  the  wish  to  hide 
himself  from  her  then,  he  could  not  move.  So 
when  she  pulled  back  the  blind  to  look  out  into  the 
darkness,  she  saw  him  standing  there  and  he  heard 
the  cry  that  came  out  of  her  lips  and  thought  it  was 
fear  at  the  sudden  sight  of  him. 

They  were  long  windows  that  opened  to  the 
264 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

ground  and  when  some  moments  had  gone  by,  she 
unfastened  the  catch  and  held  the  window  wide. 

"Anthony  Sorel,"  she  said  and  the  voice  with 
which  she  spoke  was  almost  below  the  sound  of  her 
breath.  But  he  heard  her  say  his  name  and  knew 
then  how  the  faerie  in  the  mountains  that  night 
had  stolen  from  her  even  the  beauty  of  her  voice, 
for  the  sound  of  it  was  like  a  sword  thrust  into  his 
heart,  so  that  he  could  only  stand  there  in  silence, 
with  no  word  that  he  could  say  and  trembling  in 
himself  for  the  pain  that  it  brought  him. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SHE  said  no  more  than  his  name  and  stood  upon 
one  side  so  that  he  must  see  it  was  her  wish 
for  him  to  come  within. 

It  was  as  one  moving  in  a  dream  he  obeyed  and 
when  he  was  in  the  room,  she  closed  the  window 
behind  him,  then  turned,  standing  there  until  her 
eyes  had  made  sure  of  what  she  saw. 

"Why  have  you  come  like  this?"  she  asked  at  last 
and  came  to  his  side,  and  waited  there  until  he  should 
answer  her.  But  as  yet,  he  could  not  speak.  His 
tongue  was  dead.  He  could  not  feel  it  in  his  mouth. 

She  waited,  watching  the  fear  and  the  wonder  in 
his  eyes,  and  when  still  he  did  not  speak,  she  laid  a 
hand  on  his  arm,  asking  again. 

He  found  his  voice,  but  it  was  not  the  voice  he 
knew  of  as  his  own,  for  it  seemed  to  be  far  away 
in  him  and  the  sound  of  it  came  to  his  ears  as  an 
echo  comes  that  beats  back  with  its  hollow  note 
across  the  hills. 

"I  came  for  the  last  sight  of  you,"  he  said  simply, 
"before  I  go  out  of  the  mountains  up  there  and 
set  out  further  away  into  the  West." 

She  took  her  hand  away  from  him  and  stood 
alone. 

"You're  leaving  your  cabin  in  Knockshunahal- 
lion?"  she  asked. 

266 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  bent  his  head. 

"When?" 

"To-morrow — as  soon  as  the  sun  is  up." 

"Why?" 

With  all  the  longing  that  was  in  him  to  find  the 
full  measure  of  her  understanding,  he  yet  felt  it 
impossible  to  tell  her  why.  Perhaps  a  consciousness 
in  the  luxury  of  those  surroundings  made  him  feel 
the  strangeness  of  his  own  life,  the  different  being 
he  was  to  her,  the  separate  planes  in  which  they 
moved  and  the  sudden  fear,  when  he  found  her  thus 
so  far  from  the  touch  of  the  Nature  with  which  he 
lived,  that  the  ideal  he  had  made  of  her  might  well 
not  be  the  woman  that  she  was. 

"Can't  you  tell  me  why?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  long  at  her  then,  hardly  believing 
her  the  same  woman  he  had  seen  those  days  upon 
the  open  stretches  of  his  mountain  land,  yet  clinging 
desperately  in  his  heart  to  the  one  ideal  that  he  had 
found  in  her.  For  now  it  was  her  beauty  most  of 
all  he  saw,  the  soft  transparency  of  her  skin,  the 
color  of  her  lips,  the  deep  and  peaceful  lights  that 
looked  out  from  her  eyes;  her  hair,  its  dark,  warm 
color  too;  even  the  comb  of  some  green  jade  that 
nestled  there  like  a  snake  in  hiding  in  the  earth; 
even  that  he  saw  as  well. 

He  found  no  blame  in  her  for  this,  but  knew  it 
was  the  shadow  of  the  spell  the  faeries  had  cast  deep 
upon  his  soul.  So  he  closed  his  eyes  as  she  stood 
before  him  and  tried  to  think  alone  upon  the  greater 
beauty  she  had  brought  him  first. 
18  267 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Do  you  remember  the  words  of  Mrs.  Coyne?" 
he  asked  her  presently — "that  night  when  I  brought 
you  down  the  mountains  to  Gorteeshall?" 

"I  remember,"  she  replied. 

But  though  she  said  she  remembered  them,  he 
repeated  them  aloud  to  her  then. 

"  'Tis  not  that  sort  of  wisdom  will  be  sthandin' 
to  ye  and  ye  taken  by  the  faeries  yeerself  where  the 
roads  are  crossed  and  the  night  comes  batterin'  wid 
the  wind  across  the  mountains  at  yeer  little  door." 

"I  remember  them — every  word,"  she  said  again. 

He  opened  his  eyes  now  and  he  looked  at  her. 

"They  were  true  words,"  said  he.  "Didn't  I  say 
as  we  listened,  that  she  spoke  with  authority?" 

Now  again  she  came  close  to  his  side  and  then  he 
knew  that  the  perfumes  that  had  come  to  his  senses 
were  not  only  the  scents  of  the  flowers  in  her  garden, 
but  the  scent  of  the  perfume  she  wore  upon  her 
body;  that  without  his  knowing  it,  it  had  entered 
into  the  consciousness  of  his  mind  and  lain  there 
until  such  time  as  when  the  weakness  of  his  spirit 
was  upon  him. 

She  saw  the  trembling  that  passed  through  him 
as  she  touched  his  arm  and  instinctively  her  fingers 
tightened  in  their  hold. 

"How  have  the  words  come  true?"  she  asked. 

Then  he  told  her  how  the  faeries  had  come  to 
him  and  of  the  woman  whose  beauty  was  the  beauty 
she  had  stolen  from  Anna  Quartermaine  to  bring  it 
there  tempting  him  into  the  mountains. 

"Why  tempting  you  ?"  she  asked. 
268 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  took  her  hand  from  his  arm,  needing  that  for- 
titude to  bear  the  touch  of  her.  She  turned  with 
her  eyes  always  watching  him  as  he  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out.  What  he  thought  of  then, 
she  might  perhaps  have  known,  but  it  was  the  spoken 
word  she  wanted  and  waited  for  it  from  his  lips. 

And  when  it  seemed  he  would  not  utter  the  spoken 
word,  she  would  not  let  him  free  of  it,  but  asked 
again. 

"Why  tempting  you?"  said  she. 

"Because  I  am  just  a  man  after  all,"  he  answered. 
"These  years  of  loneliness  have  brought  me 
knowledge  of  the  truth  but  not  the  power  to  grasp 
it.  Why  do  you  ask  me  to  explain?  The  explana- 
tion I  should  give  to  you  might  be  understood  but 
not  by  the  woman  you  are  to  me." 

"What  am  I  to  you?"  she  murmured. 

He  drew  his  breath  deep  for  the  want  of  his 
words. 

"The  thing  only  a  woman  can  be,"  said  he, 
"to  a  man  only  when  he  loves.  It's  so  easy  a  thing 
to  desire — and  so  hard  a  thing  to  love,  and  isn't 
there  all  the  distance  between  them,  that  stretches 
from  the  highest  heaven  to  the  furthest  earth?" 

She  told  him  she  saw  no  difference  and  he  was 
marveling  at  that  then,  thinking  that  in  the  ideal  he 
had  made  of  her,  he  knew  her  better  than  she  knew 
herself. 

"Aren't  the  two  things  one,"  said  she,  "woven 
so  close  and  interwoven  that  it  would  go  hard  for 
you  to  know  which  was  which?" 

269 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  sat  down  by  the  side  of  her  where  she  was 
sitting  and  made  for  her  stories  that  he  knew  or  had 
learnt  from  the  people  in  their  cottages  and  they 
all  said  the  same  thing — that  the  heart  of  a  man  is 
as  fuel  in  the  needs  of  his  body  and  that  desire  will 
burn  out  love  as  peat  is  burnt  on  the  floor  of  the 
open  grate. 

And  when  he  had  made  an  end  of  his  stories,  to 
which  she  had  listened  in  all  silence,  she  looked  at 
him  and  held  his  eyes  with  her  eyes  so  that  she 
might  yet  know  his  answer  should  he  not  reply. 

And  this  was  what  she  asked  him. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  she  said. 

He  gave  some  moments  to  silence  before  he  an- 
swered, but  did  not  hesitate  in  the  steady  glance  of 
his  eyes. 

"Yes — "  he  said  presently  and  felt  the  power  and 
virtue  of  his  manhood  that  he  could  say  it,  in  the 
stillness  of  his  heart,  without  trembling,  as  he  had 
been  trembling  those  days,  or  even  thinking  of  the 
beauty  that  was  in  her  face  as  he  had  thought  of  it 
when  he  saw  it  in  the  face  of  the  faerie  woman  on 
the  hill. 

"And  you  are  going  away?" 

"Right  away,"  said  he,  "out  into'the  West  where 
the  sounds  of  the  sea  are  the  silences  that  come 
into  a  man's  mind." 

"Aren't  there  silences  in  the  mountains  surely?" 
she  asked  him. 

And  he  shook  his  head. 

"These  last  still  nights,  when  never  a  breath  has 
270 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

been  whispering  in  the  thorn  trees  and  you  could 
hear  the  water  trickling  through  the  moss  between 
the  stones,  there  has  been  the  babel  of  voices  in  my 
ears,  so  that  the  silent  hills  were  ringing  with  the 
noise  of  them.  Silence,  solitude — like  love  itself — 
all  these  things  are  in  the  wind.  To-night  I  shall 
go  back  into  the  mountains,  having  seen  you  this  last 
time,  and  through  all  this  storm  that  will  howl  about 
my  cabin  door,  there  will  be  such  silence  in  my  soul 
as  I  have  not  heard  for  many  days.  Then  the  voices 
will  be  still,  for  it  is  you  can  kill  the  self  in  me  and 
all  the  desires  that  come  in  a  torment  in  my  sleep." 

And  now  she  asked  him  was  it  love  of  her  it 
could  be,  if  it  took  him  away  from  her  and  put 
the  miles  of  the  roads  and  the  rivers  between  them. 

"Can  you  love  me  and  leave  me  too?"  she  asked. 

He  reached  out  for  the  words  that  he  had,  to 
explain  the  things  that  he  meant. 

"It's  not  you  I'm  leaving,"  he  cried  out  to  her, 
"but  myself.  One  more  night  than  this  in  those 
mountains  and  because  of  the  weakness  and  desire 
that  is  in  me,  the  words  of  Mrs.  Coyne  would  be 
true.  The  faeriefs  would  take  me  and  never  again 
should  I  be  the  man  I  have  been  these  two  years 
gone  and  all  the  hope  of  the  great  things  that  I  had 
would  be  lost.  Didn't  I  show  you  Mary  Coyne 
whose  own  beauty  was  the  emotion  that  brought  her 
to  the  end?  Wasn't  it  the  faeries  that  came  with 
the  lights  that  she  saw  and  the  music  that  she  heard 
and  didn't  they  bring  the  last  destruction  to  her 
soul?  And  can't  you  see  that  the  Fate  of  the  faeries 

271 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Is  upon  me  as  well?  By  prayer  and  fasting,  by 
walking  this  way  on  the  roads  and  that  way  on  the 
roads,  I  have  tired  the  body  in  me,  so  that  only  in 
dreams  has  the  woman  with  your  beauty  that  she 
stole  come  near  to  me  again.  And  now  to-morrow 
I  shall  be  gone  and  all  the  emotion  that  over- 
whelmed me  will  be  put  away  and  I  sitting  by  the 
rocks  that  look  over  the  silence  of  the  tempest  of 
the  sea." 

"What  a  wonderful  madness  it  all  is,"  said  she, 
as  though  with  a  light  from  the  far  illumination  of 
his  mind,  for  she  had  for  the  instant  caught  sight 
of  the  ideal  for  which  he  strove. 

"And  what  a  wonderful  love  it  will  be,"  he  an- 
swered, "when  I  can  love  you  as  I  talk  to  you  now 
and  my  heart  will  no  longer  be  the  fuel  in  the  fur- 
nace of  my  body." 

She  turned  away  and  what  moved  her  she  could 
not  think,  but  she  went  to  the  window  and  stood 
there  looking  out  into  the  rushing  wind  and  the 
lightning  that  flashed  out  where  no  rain  seemed 
promised  to  assuage  the  storm. 

At  last  she  turned  again. 

"What  does  this  other  woman  and  her  beauty 
mean  to  you?"  she  asked. 

"Haven't  I  told  you,"  he  replied,  "what  all 
faeries  mean — that  symbol  of  the  emotions  by  which 
we  are  overwhelmed.  She  is  the  symbol  of  my  lower 
self,  that  cannot  love  but  only  knows  desire." 

"And  with  the  beauty  that  you  find  in  me?"  said 
she. 

272 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  bent  his  head. 

"Then  is  not  that  the  way  you  love  me  too?" 

To  which  he  cried  out,  "No—"  and  "No—" 
and  "No"  again. 

"That  is  the  way  I  love  myself,"  he  said. 
"There's  not  one  word  that  you  could  utter  or  which, 
as  I  am,  could  make  me  long  for  you." 

She  dropped  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"I — I  cannot  understand,"  said  she.  "It  sounds 
very  wonderful,  that's  all  that  I  can  say.  I've  never 
thought  of  love  like  this  in  all  my  life  and  cannot 
understand  it  even  now  the  thought  has  come  to  me. 
Why  should  this  faerie  woman  with  the  beauty  I 
have,  contain  such  power  in  her  that  as  I  stand  here 
is  denied  to  me?" 

"Some  women  only  have  one  power,"  said  he — 
"the  power  to  make  men  love  themselves.  You  have 
the  power  with  me  to  make  me  love  the  spirit  that 
is  all  of  truth  and  is  not  mine  or  any  man's  but  be- 
longs to  the  world  of  men  itself.  She  has  the  beauty 
that  my  eyes  have  seen  in  you,  that  my  body  needs, 
that  wake  all  the  storms  and  tumults  of  emotion  in 
the  silence  I  had  gathered  in  my  mind.  That  is 
what  I  am  going  to  leave  behind  me  and  only  love 
of  you  that  I  take.  And  if  I  am  or  if  I'm  not  the 
man  that  you  would  ever  love,  time  will  bring  us 
proof.  If  I  am  not,  you'll  know  that  you  have  been 
the  greatest  hope  a  man  has  ever  striven  to  secure. 
And  that  is  love,  the  thing  that  makes  us  know  the 
spirit  that  we  have.  I  only  go,  because  I  must  learn 
the  truth  that  is  in  me." 

273 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

He  moved  to  the  window  by  which  she  had  let 
him  in.  But  in  the  sudden  fear  of  losing  him,  she 
caught  his  hand. 

"Do  you  hate  the  other  woman?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  he.    "I  only  hate  myself." 

He  bent  and  touched  the  hand  that  held  him  with 
his  lips  and  before  she  could  stay  him,  had  uncaught 
the  window  fastening  and  was  gone. 

The  black  storm  of  the  night  took  him  as  a  body 
is  sucked  down  into  a  whirlpool.  For  one  instant 
she  heard  his  footsteps  on  the  garden  path  and 
then  the  silence  he  had  spoken  of  was  an  emptiness 
and  a  pain  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ANTHONY  SOREL  came  up  into  the  moun- 
tains again  by  the  narrow  track  across  the 
moors  where  the  peat  carts  would  be  going, 
making  their  two  deep  ruts  in  the  soft,  mossy  earth 
and  beating  out  a  smooth  pathway  where  the  hoofs 
of  the  horses  and  the  jennets  would  be  falling. 

By  this  way  it  was  passing  Crow  Hill  and  Mal- 
achi's  cabin  he  would  be  and  the  storm  of  the  wind 
was  blowing  about  him  with  the  strength  of  great 
waves  in  a  wild  sea  and  sometimes  the  way  before 
him  that  was  black  with  the  heaviness  of  the  night 
was  lit  up  by  the  lightning  flashes,  and  the  sound  of 
the  thunder  was  like  the  rush  of  the  great  rocks 
that  sometimes  are  loosened  and  would  be  tumbling 
down  the  mountain's  side. 

But  the  noise  of  the  storm,  just  as  he  had  said, 
was  nothing  to  him  now,  for  now  there  was  an 
abounding  stillness  in  the  far  depths  of  his  mind 
that  no  storm  of  the  wind,  no  thunder  or  lightning 
could  disturb. 

Whether  the  ideal  he  had  made  of  Anna  Quar- 
termaine  was  the  real  woman  she  was  or  not,  meant 
nothing  to  him  then;  whether  the  surroundings  in 
which  he  found  her — so  distinct  and  high  above  his 
own — had  contributed  to  these  lofty  and  almost  un- 
earthly impressions  of  her,  he  did  not  stop  to  think. 

275 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Realities  were  not  in  the  dealings  of  his  mind.  She 
had  inspired  him  to  the  greatness  of  his  purpose 
surely.  That  sight  of  her  had  given  him  the  strength 
he  had  desired.  He  climbed  up  the  mountain  path, 
singing  as  he  went  for  the  courage  now  that  was  in 
him.  The  dread  of  the  night  had  passed  away  in 
the  exaltation  that  he  had.  Now  he  could  prove 
to  himself  that  in  the  sacrifice  of  love,  there  was 
no  belittling  emotion  of  desire  and  when  that  was 
proved  would  he  not  have  the  greatest  thing  a  man 
can  possess  to  offer  her? 

At  the  door  of  Malachi's  cottage  he  thought  to 
pass,  then  knocked,  saying  to  himself  it  was  for  the 
last  time  and  with  more  truth  than  ever  he  could 
have  known. 

The  old  man  opened  the  door  and  the  wind  caught 
it  from  his  hands  and  flung  it  wide. 

"Is  it  still  walking  the  roads  ye  are,"  said  he, 
"and  ye  desthroyed  surely  the  way  yeer  clothes  do 
be  hanging  and  flapping  on  yeer  bones?" 

"  'Tis  not  destroyed  I  am,"  said  Anthony  Sorel, 
"but  a  new  man  who  can  face  all  the  terrors  of  this 
night  and  will  be  making  his  way  into  the  West  with 
the  morning  light  of  the  day." 

"God  be  wid  that  day,"  said  Malachi  mournfully, 
"and  may  ye  get  the  great  name  by  the  songs 
ye'd  be  singing  when  there'll  be  but  the  bare 
silence  of  these  hills  to  wake  me  and  I  coming  to 
my  sleep." 

He  held  open  the  door  against  the  wind,  but 
Anthony  Sorel  would  not  come  within  for  the  need 

276 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  the  sleep  that  was  on  him  and  the  weakness  it 
brought. 

"Would  I  pass  your  door  the  last  night,"  said  he, 
"if  the  pain  of  sleep  was  twice  as  heavy  on  my 
eyes?  Would  I  pass  your  door  and  not  be  telling 
you  'twas  the  strength  I  had  got  by  me  again,  the 
way  I'd  be  going  no  more  into  the  valley  or  the 
townland  where  my  songs  would  be  destroyed 
and  the  soul  in  me  become  a  warped  and  a  little 
thing?" 

"Where  did  ye  come  by  the  power  of  it  now," 
asked  Malachi,  "and  ye  wid  the  sweat  on  yeer  face 
was  weak  like  a  young  lamb  sucking  the  dead? 
Where  did  ye  come  by  the  power  of  it  at  all?"  he 
inquired. 

Anthony  Sorel  told  him  where  he  had  been  and 
the  strength  he  had  found  from  the  last  sight  of  the 
woman  that  he  loved. 

Before  he  had  finished  there  was  the  sound  of 
mirthless,  hollow  laughter  in  the  old  man's  voice. 
He  raised  his  hands  above  his  head  and  there  he 
shook  them  in  the  air. 

"May  the  Lord  God  Almighty  have  the  keeping 
of  yeer  soul,"  said  he,  "for  the  sense  has  gone  out 
of  ye  and  aren't  the  wits  lost  on  ye  to  be  doing  a 
mad  thing  the  like  of  that?" 

"What  madness  is  there  in  the  thing  I've  done?" 
Anthony  Sorel  asked. 

"Yirra,  isn't  that  the  way  all  men  are  mad  that 
do  be  walking  the  earth  the  way  'tis  in  the  power 
of  them  to  leave  a  woman  be  and  she  drawin'  them 

277 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

wid  her  eyes  could  draw  the  sthones  down  the  moun- 
tainsides?" 

"Didn't  I  tell  ye  these  days  gone  by,  not  to  be 
speaking  the  parting  word  to  herself?  And  wasn't 
it  the  truth  I  was  saying  that  her  voice  would  be 
coming  to  ye  in  the  fall  of  the  night  and  she  crying 
out  with  the  want  of  women  for  the  nature  is  in 
them?  Glory  be  to  God,  have  they  put  the  sthroke 
on  ye  that  yeer  wits  do  be  gone  with  walking  the 
hills  and  crying  out  there  in  yeer  cabin  for  the  looks 
she'd  be  having  in  her  eyes  and  the  wet  touch  of 
her  lips?" 

He  turned  away  from  him  as  from  one  that  is 
past  all  healing,  standing  by  his  window  and  rocking 
himself  to  and  fro. 

"I  shall  be  gone  to-morrow,"  said  Anthony  Sorel. 
"Must  I  be  saying  it  again?  To-morrow  I  shall 
be  gone  and  all  the  twists  and  the  turns  of  the  road 
and  the  walls  of  the  hills  will  be  between  us.  'Tis 
herself  has  given  me  power  to  be  facing  this  night 
alone  and  our  parting  said  and  she  knowing  the  way 
I'd  be  loving  her  and  never  raising  a  hand  to  hold 
me  back." 

"Is  it  raise  her  hand  she  would!"  exclaimed 
Malachi  sorrowfully.  "Is  it  the  hand  of  a  woman 
ever  held  a  man  yet,  when  the  thoughts  she  puts  in 
him  with  the  look  of  her  eyes  and  the  kisses  she 
has  for  him  on  her  lips,  are  things  mightier  than 
her  hands  would  be  for  the  holding?  Yirra — is  it 
gone  he'd  be  when  a  man  says  good-bye  to  a  woman? 
It  is  not.  D'ye  mind  me  now,  for  the  hours  of  the 

278 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

night  are  still  before  ye  and  ye  sitting  alone  in  the 
storm  in  yeer  little  room  and  shan't  I  be  praying 
God  on  me  two  knees  bended  that  the  light  of  the 
day  shall  be  coming  fast  till  ye'd  be  gone?" 

"She's  said  good-bye  and  she's  let  me  go,"  said 
Anthony  Sorel.  "Isn't  that  enough?  And  aren't  I 
strong  to  be  going  and  isn't  there  power  in  me  I 
never  had  these  days  that  are  past?" 

And  then  an  anger  came  into  him  with  his  pride 
that  was  hurt  and  he  cried  out  that  never  would 
Malachi  know  the  virtue  of  the  love  that  he  had  or 
the  exaltation  that  it  brought  to  his  soul.  And  the 
old  man  bent  his  head,  saying  he  was  no  maker  of 
songs,  nor  had  he  the  tongue  of  the  poet  in  his 
head. 

"Maybe  'tis  the  years  that  are  on  me,"  said  he, 
"and  I  dried  up  and  withered  with  age,  could  not 
remember  the  blood  has  gone  dancing  through  me 
veins.  For  'tis  easy  a  man  would  be  forgetting  the 
love  that  he  had  in  the  days  of  his  youth  when  the 
thorn  trees  would  blossom  for  the  pleasure  of  his 
eyes.  Shure  the  madness  of  love  is  a  great  thing, 
but  when  yeer  heart  is  dry  with  the  years  that  are 
on  ye,  then  'tis  the  way  the  thorn  trees  would  blos- 
som in  the  want  of  their  seed  and  divil  a  bit  is  it 
for  the  pleasure  of  yeer  eyes.  Let  ye  go  now,  An- 
thony Sorel,  and  be  taking  yeer  madness  away  there 
up  into  the  hills  and  when  the  blossoms  fall  and 
the  seed-pods  do  be  opening  their  mouths,  let  ye  seek 
in  yeer  heart  for  the  words  I've  said  this  night,  for 
never  to  my  knowing  do  the  blossoms  be  parting 

279 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

from  the  tree  till  the  seeds  be  set  and  the  winds  of 
God  do  be  scattering  them  east  and  west  in  the 
soft  and  fruitful  corners  of  the  earth.  And  where 
would  the  songs  of  a  man  he'd  be  singing  be  then 
when  the  blossom  was  gone  and  the  pleasures  be 
dead  in  the  heart  of  him?" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  door  of  Anthony  Sorel's  cabin  was  rat- 
tling in  the  storm  of  the  wind  and  it  was 
when  he  had  reached  it  and  his  hand  was  on 
the  latch  that  the  words  Malachi  had  spoken  came 
with  the  truth  that  they  had  into  his  mind.  So  it 
was  he  stood  there  without  entering  as  one  who 
listens  for  the  sound  of  a  voice  or  a  movement 
within.  But  the  voice  was  in  himself  and  it  was  the 
voice  of  Malachi  and  over  and  over  again  it  was 
saying, 

"Never  to  my  knowing  do  the  blossoms  be  parting 
from  the  tree  till  the  seeds  be  set  and  the  winds  of 
God  do  be  scattering  them  east  and  west  in  the 
soft  and  fruitful  corners  of  the  earth." 

It  was  they  in  their  youth  were  the  blossoms  of 
the  tree,  he  meant.  It  was  in  them  the  seeds  should 
be  set  by  the  winds  of  God. 

And  then  again  he  heard  the  voice  of  Malachi 
and  it  was  saying, 

"The  madness  of  love  is  a  great  thing,  but  when 
your  heart  is  dry  with  the  years  that  are  on  ye, 
then  'tis  the  way  the  thorn  trees  would  blossom  in 
the  want  of  their  seed  and  divil  a  bit  is  it  for  the 
pleasure  of  yeer  eyes." 

He  flung  the  door  open  wide  and  went  in  and 
seated  himself  down  on  the  stool  in  the  chimney 

281 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

corner,  and  set  himself,  in  anger  at  his  thoughts,  to 
the  making  of  his  fire  that  was  black  and  cold  in  a 
bed  of  white  ashes. 

Was  it  the  truth?  Was  it  the  truth?  Was  love 
the  deceiving  emotion  that  only  conjured  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  youth?  Could  no  woman  be  the 
inspiration  of  the  highest  beauty  and  the  greatest 
truth? 

The  wood  he  had  brought  to  the  grate  burnt  up 
into  flame  and  he  felt  the  first  warmth  of  it  stealing 
into  his  blood. 

Surely  the  tree  in  its  blossoming  was  a  truth  in 
itself — a  beauty  alone,  if  the  eye  would  but  choose 
to  see  it.  Not  everything  was  a  means  to  an  end. 
His  love  of  the  woman  from  whom  he  had  parted, 
that  was  a  thing  in  itself,  a  blossom  from  which  no 
seed  need  come  to  complete  the  beauty  and  the  truth 
that  it  was.  Weren't  there  emotions  other  than  the 
emotions  of  Nature  that  moved  in  man?  Was  there 
not  the  spirit  in  him  that  stood,  alone,  as  he  soon 
would  be  standing,  when  the  winding  of  the  roads 
and  the  length  of  the  rivers  would  be  set  between 
them? 

The  whole  object  of  his  life  depended  on  it  that 
it  were  so,  but  just  when  he  thought  he  had  found 
comfort  in  that,  came  the  words  of  Malachi  back 
into  his  mind  until  they  sung  in  the  air  about  his 
head  and  all  his  senses  were  tricked  by  the  sound 
of  them. 

He  was  struggling  now  to  keep  back  the  conscious 
self  in  him  and  every  word  of  Malachi's  that  re- 

282 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

turned  to  him,  he  flung  from  his  mind  like  a  man 
that  is  beset  on  all  sides. 

"May  never  a  man  be  parted  from  a  woman," 
he  cried  out  aloud,  "till  the  nature  that  is  in  them 
shall  come  to  its  own  fulfillment!  Is  there  never  a 
blossom  that  falls  from  the  tree,  but  what  the  seed 
is  already  set  in  the  hour  of  its  parting!  Is  pleasure 
the  only  reward  that  a  man  desires,  and  the  only 
gift  that  Nature  has  to  give  him!" 

And  then  the  silence  came  over  him,  and  the 
warmth  of  the  fire  was  about  him  as  he  sat,  and  the 
storm  came  battering  across  the  mountains  at  his 
little  door. 

It  was  presently  in  a  despair  that  he  rose  from  the 
persecution  of  his  thoughts  and  set  about  making  a 
cup  of  tea  for  himself  and  cut  a  piece  of  bread  from 
a  loaf  that  was  in  the  house.  And  when  he  had 
eaten  the  bread  and  drunk  the  steaming  liquid,  he 
came  back  to  his  stool  in  the  corner  of  the  chimney. 

"The  last  night,"  he  said  aloud  and  looked  about 
him,  at  the  rafters  in  the  thatch,  the  smoke-colored 
walls,  the  bed  he  had  slept  on  at  nights  for  the  two 
years  that  had  passed  and  a  sadness  came  over  him 
to  think  he  must  be  gone  from  it  so  soon.  For  life 
seemed  a  thing  to  be  weary  of  then,  and  as  he 
thought  of  the  long  roads  before  him  to  the  West 
and  the  nights  that  he  must  be  traveling  and  all  the 
days  when  he  would  be  searching  for  a  roof  to  cover 
his  head,  he  could  have  wished  to  lie  down  where 
he  was  for  the  fatigue  and  the  sadness  that  was 
over  him. 

19  283 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Then  when  he  had  said  that  and  the  thoughts  it 
had  brought  had  passed  away  from  him,  he  looked 
back  again  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  glowing  fire. 
It  was  warm  to  the  slumber  in  his  eyes  and  he  saw 
faces  there  that  smiled  at  him  and  they  were  faces 
of  women  he  had  known  before  the  hope  came  to 
him  of  his  own  mastery. 

At  first  he  shut  his  eyes  and  tried  to  hide  them 
from  his  mind  where  the  sacred  image  of  the  woman 
he  loved  was  lying.  The  thought  of  them  was  sacri- 
lege to  be  thought  of  with  her.  But  it  was  as  though 
their  voices  were  calling  him,  so  that  he  opened  his 
eyes  again.  And  first  one  and  then  another  spoke 
to  him  with  the  looks  that  they  had  in  their  eyes 
and  the  gentleness  of  the  words  they  seemed  to  say 
with  their  lips.  And  he  heard  their  pity  for  the 
weariness  that  was  aching  in  his  body,  for  each  one 
seemed  to  be  saying  out  of  the  past:  "Lay  your 
head  on  my  breast  and  sleep  and  sleep  and  I  will 
watch  your  eyes  till  the  morning  wakes  you." 

These  were  not  thoughts  but  things  that  he  saw 
as  he  sat  by  the  fire  and  things  that  he  heard  as  the 
storm  raged  across  the  mountains  with  beating  gusts 
upon  his  little  door.  Often  he  shut  his  eyes  that  he 
might  see  no  more  of  them  and  pressed  his  hands 
to  his  ears  that  he  might  hear  no  more.  But  his 
eyes  opened  and  again  his  hands  fell  in  his  lap  and 
he  began  wishing  that  the  face  and  the  voice  of  Anna 
Quartermaine  would  come  in  their  stead,  rather  than 
that  he  should  find  comfort  in  things  of  the  past  he 
had  forever  put  behind  him. 

284 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

It  was  no  sooner  that  he  had  wished,  than 
the  faces  melted  in  the  flames  and  out  of  the  heart 
of  the  fire  there  rose  the  face  of  Anna  Quarter- 
maine,  and  her  eyes  were  more  sad  than  any  of 
the  eyes  of  the  women  he  had  just  seen  and  her  lips 
were  murmuring  softer  words  than  ever  they  had 
uttered. 

There  was  a  fear  that  came  upon  him  then,  that 
he  had  wished  for  the  thing  that  was  evil  in  him; 
but  now  he  could  no  longer  close  his  eyes  and  his 
hands  were  clutched  upon  his  knees  so  that  he  could 
not  press  them  to  his  ears. 

So  he  tried  in  his  mind  not  to  hear  what  she  said, 
but  her  voice  in  all  its  gentleness  was  above  the  roar- 
ing of  the  storm  and  the  eyes  that  looked  out  at  him 
were  brighter  than  the  fire  itself. 

And  he  heard  her  say, 

"Why  do  you  squander  your  days  in  the  ceaseless 
labor  of  your  soul?"  and  as  she  spoke,  he  could 
not  tell  whether  it  was  he  was  thinking  the  words, 
or  she  who  spoke  them.  For  after  that  it  seemed 
that  he  heard  a  phrase  that  came  out  of  the  days  of 
his  childhood:  "Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field — 
they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin — "  and  he  won- 
dered had  she  said  that  of  herself,  or  had  he  thought 
it,  because  of  Malachi's  speaking  of  the  blossom  on 
the  thorn  trees. 

But  because  it  had  seemed  to  come  out  of  her 
voice,  he  answered  aloud  in  his  own  and  it  sounded 
far  away,  as  if  it  came  on  the  wings  of  the  storm 
and  had  been  blown  to  him  across  the  lonely  stretches 

285 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  the  hills  till  there  was  nothing  human  in  it  that 
was  left. 

"What  is  the  life  of  a  man,"  he  said,  "when  it 
ceases  from  the  endless  labor  of  his  soul?" 

And  she  answered  to  him  out  of  the  fire, 

"The  life  of  a  flower  that  blows  in  beauty  and 
in  beauty  droops  to  the  earth  and  is  dead." 

Then  he  thought  it  must  be  the  voice  of  Malachi 
that  was  speaking  to  him  still  out  of  her  lips  and 
he  clung  again  to  the  ideal  he  had  of  her  and  his 
eyes  closed  with  the  weight  of  the  slumber  and  the 
weakness  of  resistance  that  was  on  him  and  he 
swayed  on  the  seat  where  he  sat. 

Then  the  light  of  the  fire  and  the  sight  of  her 
face  that  he  saw,  went  out  of  his  eyes  and  it  was 
that  he  knew  he  was  overtaken  by  sleep.  Yet  still 
he  could  hear  the  moan  of  the  storm  as  it  rushed 
across  the  mountains  and  still  he  could  see  the  light- 
ning when  it  lit  up  the  corners  of  his  room. 

And  whether  it  was  in  a  dream  or  a  thing  that 
had  happened,  he  did  not  know,  but  it  seemed  in 
his  sleep  that  he  opened  his  eyes,  when  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  chimney  where  he  sat,  there  was 
an  old  man  whom  he  knew  to  be  the  life  that  was 
weary  in  him.  There  was  in  his  hands  a  pack  of 
cards,  crumpled  and  worn  and  marked  with  the 
many  hands  that  had  held  them  and  he  was  counting 
them  through  his  fingers  as  one  who  is  waiting  to 
play. 

It  was  when  he  saw  that  Anthony  Sorel's  eyes  were 
open,  that  he  pulled  a  chair  between  them,  as  though 

286 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

this  it  was  for  which  he  had  been  waiting  and  he 
dealt  out  the  cards  from  the  pack  with  his  hands 
that  were  the  color  of  unwashed  clay. 

Then  in  silence  they  played — a  game  of  forty- 
five — and  when  Anthony  Sorel  saw  the  money  they 
played  for  were  the  pips  out  of  the  core  of  an  apple, 
then  he  said  aloud  as  he  played:  "This  is  a  dream," 
for  he  knew  that  it  was  the  things  Malachi  had 
said  of  the  seeds  of  the  thorn  trees  that  had  been 
fixed  in  the  web  of  his  brain. 

And  the  old  man  when  he  had  said  that  answered, 
"The  whole  of  life  is  a  dream — it  is  only  death  is 
the  awakening." 

So  they  played  on  and  it  seemed  to  Anthony 
Sorel  as  he  shuffled  the  cards  that  at  all  costs  he 
must  not  lose  the  seeds  of  the  apple  he  had  in  his 
hand  for  that  they  were  dearer  to  him  than  gold 
and  though  in  his  consciousness  he  cared  nothing  for 
the  wealth  of  gold,  it  seemed  that  gold  was  power 
to  him  then  and  that  the  seeds  were  even  dearer 
than  power. 

But  one  by  one  they  were  taken  from  him,  for  all 

the  luck  of  the  cards  came  to  the  old  man  and  there 

was  skill  with  him  too,  so  that  at  last  there  was  but 

one  seed  left  in  his  hand  and  he  cried  out  aloud, 

"If  this  is  lost  from  me  where  shall  I  be?" 

And  the  old  man  dealt  the  cards  and  answered, 

"What  are  the  seeds  of  life  to  you?" 

At  which  in  the  fear  of  losing,  Anthony  Sorel 

threw  over  the  chair  that  was  between  them,  and  the 

sound  of  it  falling  opened  his  eyes  from  the  sleep 

287 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

that  he  had,  when  he  saw  the  chair  thrown  down  at 
his  feet.  And  the  things  he  had  thought  were  the 
cards  with  which  they  played,  were  a  sheaf  of  his 
poems  that  the  wind  of  the  storm  had  gathered 
and  scattered  about  the  room. 

So  he  wondered  how  the  wind  had  come  in  for 
the  door  had  been  closed,  but  when  he  looked  up, 
the  door  was  open  and  there  on  the  threshold  stood 
the  woman  of  faerie  with  the  beauty  of  Anna  Quar- 
termaine  in  her  face. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ANTHONY  SOREL  that  was  fresh  from  sleep 
closed  his  eyes  because  in  the  moment  of 
waking  from  his  dream,  he  thought  the 
sight  had  been  deceived  in  him.  But  when  he  opened 
them  again,  the  woman  of  the  faeries  was  still  there 
and  now  the  door  was  closed  behind  her. 

Yet  she  came  no  further  into  the  room,  but  stood 
there  with  the  distance  of  the  uneven  mud  floor 
between  them,  as  if  it  needed  some  word  from  him 
to  give  her  invitation. 

But  he  could  not  speak,  for  the  only  words  in 
his  mind  were  the  words  of  Mrs.  Coyne  when  she 
said,  "  'Tis  not  that  sort  of  wisdom  will  be  sthand- 
in'  to  ye  and  ye  taken  by  the  faeries  yeerself  where 
the  roads  are  crossed  and  the  night  comes  batterin' 
with  the  wind  across  the  mountains  at  yeer  little 
door." 

Now  the  night  indeed  was  battering  with  the  wind 
across  the  mountains  at  his  cabin  door,  and  there  she 
stood  that  was  come  from  the  faeries  themselves 
and,  like  a  cloud  that  is  big  with  rain,  he  felt 
the  hour  to  be  heavy  with  the  fate  that  was  over 
him. 

"  'Tis  a  lonely  man  ye  are  this  night,  Anthony 
Sorel,"  said  she  at  last  in  the  softest  accent  of  her 
brogue,  "and  ye  goin'  the  wild  ways  of  the  starvin' 

289 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

roads  when  day  would  be  come  and  the  sun  setting 
up  in  the  heavens." 

It  brought  no  wonder  to  him  that  she  knew  he 
was  about  to  depart.  Since  that  first  moment  of 
amazement  when  she  had  spoken  his  name  on  the 
hillside,  he  knew  that  nothing  was  there  that  could 
be  hid  from  her. 

"Couldn't  you  leave  me  the  peace  of  these  hours," 
said  he  mournfully,  "when  'tis  sleep  that  I  need  to 
be  finding  the  strength  of  the  man  that  was  in  me?" 

She  made  a  movement  to  come  to  the  chair  he 
had  thrown  down  in  his  sleep,  and  though  he  cried 
out  to  her  to  be  staying  where  she  was  nor  come 
nearer  one  step  to  him,  she  took  no  heed  but  smiled 
gently  at  the  fear  in  his  voice  and  picked  up  the  chair 
as  it  lay  and  seated  herself  there  by  the  fire. 

It  was  then  as  he  looked  at  her,  that  his  senses 
swung  in  a  void  where  there  was  no  power  of  his 
will.  For  the  perfume  that  had  been  about  Anna 
Quartermaine  was  now  in  his  nostrils  and  her  voice 
continued  from  the  moment  of  her  silence  like  a 
soft  music  that  destroyed  the  truth  of  all  sound  in  his 
ears;  and  as  he  looked  in  her  face  he  heard  the 
words  of  Anna  Quartermaine  that  she  had  spoken  to 
him  out  of  the  fire  when  she  said:  "Why  do  you 
squander  your  days  in  the  ceaseless  labor  of  your 
soul?" 

He  clenched  his  hands  till  the  nails  were  biting 
of  his  palms  in  his  effort  to  regain  the  balance  of 
his  resistance  which  in  that  moment  had  almost  gone 
from  him. 

290 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

"Couldn't  you  leave  me  in  peace?"  he  said  again. 

"Was  there  peace  in  the  sleep  that  ye  had?"  she 
replied.  "Yirra,  wasn't  I  sthandin'  at  the  door  and 
ye  moanin'  and  cryin'  out  like  a  dog  would  be  lost 
on  the  mountain  land?  And  didn't  ye  throw  down 
the  chair  with  the  fret  that  was  on  ye?  Shure  what 
rest  would  ye  be  getting  out  of  sleep  is  the  like  of 
a  tossin'  dream?  Isn't  it  the  sleep  of  a  babe,  do  be 
lying  in  the  hook  of  its  mother's  arm,  ye'd  be  want- 
ing? An'  isn't  it  comin'  all  these  ways  over  the 
mountain  sthones  I'd  be,  to  be  bringin'  the  sleep  to 
yeer  eyes  an'  I  with  no  vamps  at  all  an'  me  feet  cut 
an'bleedin'?" 

"Wouldn't  I  sooner  be  awake  all  night,"  said  he, 
"than  be  sleeping  so?" 

She  took  no  notice  of  his  words  and  it  was  as  if 
he  had  not  spoken,  for  without  answering,  she  lifted 
one  of  her  bare  feet  and  there  was  the  broken  skin 
and  the  little  trickling  streams  of  blood  where  the 
stones  had  cut  against  her  as  she  walked. 

He  followed  her  eyes  with  his  eyes  where  she 
looked  and  when  he  saw  the  pain  of  the  wounds  on 
her  ankles  and  about  the  soles  of  her  feet,  he  felt 
all  that  pity  as  he  would  have  felt  for  a  human 
thing  and  went  to  the  door  that  opened  at  the  back 
of  his  room  and  passed  out. 

She  smiled  up  at  him  when  he  came  back  with  a 
bowl  of  soft  rain-water  in  his  hands  and  watched 
him  with  a  look  of  gratitude  in  her  eyes  as  he  washed 
her  feet  of  the  earth  and  the  blood  that  was  fast 
upon  them.  And  when  he  made  an  end  of  drying 

291 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

them  with  a  cloth  he  had  brought  as  well,  she  slipped 
gently  a  hand  on  his  head  as  he  knelt  at  her  feet, 
and  drew  it  down  upon  the  softness  of  her  lap  and 
bending  down  over  him  she  whispered:  "Let  ye  be 
sleepin'  so  now  and  my  eyes  will  be  watchin'  ye  till 
the  mornin'." 

Then,  though  he  knew  they  were  the  words  of 
the  voices  he  had  heard  out  of  the  fire,  and  though 
the  soul  in  him  cried  out  that  he  was  losing  sight  of 
the  ideal  that  he  had,  yet  for  a  time  he  stayed  where 
he  was,  thinking,  in  the  weariness  of  his  body,  of 
the  peace  such  sleep  would  be. 

She  bent  over  him  presently  to  see  had  the  sleep 
come  yet  to  his  aching  eyes  and  when  she  saw  they 
were  open  and  fixed  in  a  staring  wakefulness  on  the 
glow  of  the  fire,  she  whispered  again  in  his  ear, 

"Why  would  ye  be  suffering  the  pain  of  a  man  is 
wandering  the  starving  land  for  a  bite  or  a  sup  while 
the  hunger  that  is  through  him  would  be  feeding  on 
his  bones?  What's  this  madness  ye  have  on  ye?" 

And  her  voice  as  she  asked  him  was  soft  with  the 
voice  of  women  whose  nature  it  is  to  minister  to 
the  needs  of  men. 

He  heard  that  note  it  was  never  her  thought  to 
conceal  and  he  looked  up  into  her  face  from  where 
he  sat,  wondering  why  he  had  never  consciously 
known  the  beauty  of  Anna  Quartermaine  so  well  as 
he  knew  it  now  in  this  creature  of  faerie  who  had 
stolen  the  beauty  that  she  had.  For  whereas  in 
Anna  Quartermaine  he  had  allowed  only  the  spirit  in 
him  to  be  stirred  by  the  light  of  her  eyes,  the  sound 

292 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  her  voice  and  the  beauty  of  her  mind,  yet  now, 
with  that  same  beauty  before  him,  it  was  not  the 
hope  in  his  soul  that  he  thought  of,  but  weariness 
of  his  body  and  the  need  of  his  sleep  and  the  sweet 
danger  of  the  peace  that  she  brought  him. 

"Why  did  you  walk  all  these  ways  on  the  road 
and  up  the  paths  of  the  lifting  hills  to  be  coming  to 
me  the  nights  when  the  man  that  was  strong  in  me 
had  face?  Why  did  the  faeries  send  you  this  night 
of  all  the  nights  when  the  man  that  was  strong  in 
me  had  dropped  to  the  weakness  of  water  would  be 
trickling  willy-nilly  through  the  moss?" 

She  stroked  the  hair  of  his  head  with  the  linger- 
ing motion  of  her  hand,  and  with  every  touch  of  it, 
he  felt  the  passage  of  a  stream  of  blood  through  his 
veins  that  was  warm  and  giving  him  life  while  it 
brought  him  ease  of  the  pains  of  weariness  that  he 
had. 

"Didn't  I  know  it  was  beaten  and  bruised  ye 
were,"  she  answered,  "and  ye  destroyed  shurely  by 
the  pains  of  a  man  is  gone  to  madness  with  the  need 
would  be  in  him?" 

"And  what  matter  would  that  be  making  to 
you?" 

She  passed  the  touch  of  her  hand  from  his  hair  to 
his  forehead  that  was  damp  with  the  sweat  that  was 
on  him.  And  when  he  felt  the  gentleness  of  her 
fingers  on  his  skin,  he  shivered  and  closed  his  eyes 
as  it  were  more  than  he  could  bear. 

"Isn't  it  the  matter  with  all  women,"  she  an- 
swered him  then,  "the  way  they  must  be  the  cause 

293 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

of  all  suffering  would  be  in  the  very  heart  of  them  to 
appease?" 

"How  did  you  know  there  was  suffering  in 
me?" 

"Didn't  I  see  ye,"  said  she,  "and  ye  walkin' 
the  hills  and  didn't  I  know  the  fear  of  yeer  heart 
that  was  on  ye  and  ye  talkin'  and  keepin'  the  dis- 
tance of  me  that  night?  Will  ye  lay  yeer  head  down 
now  while  my  hands  would  be  sthrokin'  ye,  for  isn't 
it  the  want  of  the  sleep  is  killin'  ye  entirely?" 

He  could  not  think  whether  it  were  obedience  or 
not,  but  laid  his  head  down  once  more  in  her  lap 
and  wished  it  were  near  to  the  hour  of  the  morning 
for  the  powerlessness  that  had  come  over  him.  Yet 
as  he  lay  there  and  she  stroked  his  forehead  with  her 
hand,  he  could  not  close  his  eyes,  but  was  wondering 
what  Anna  Quartermaine  would  think  of  ail  the 
fine  words  of  his  parting,  if  she  could  see  him 
then. 

At  last  and  at  the  very  moment  she  was  smiling 
because  she  believed -the  sleep  had  come  to  him,  he 
leapt  to  his  feet  from  her  lap  where  he  lay  and 
shook  off  from  him  all  the  sensations  of  the  touch  of 
her  hand.  For  now  he  could  no  longer  bear  the  ac- 
cusation of  the  thoughts  that  beset  him  and  a  wild 
strength  had  come  to  his  soul,  as  when  a  man  fights 
fiercely  at  the  very  moment  of  his  defeat  or  a  candle 
shoots  up  the  highest  flame  as  it  gutters  and  dies 
out. 

"This  night — only  this  night,"  he  cried  out, 
"there  was  I  saying  the  parting  word  to  the  woman 

294 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

I  love  and  what  is  this  madness  of  ease  has  come 
over  me  now  and  what  would  she  say  of  me  to  be 
playing  with  the  danger  that  I  am  1" 

"If  'tis  the  woman  is  in  her  at  all,"  she  answered 
him,  "is  it  plaguing  herself  she'd  be  and  ye  takin' 
ease  from  one  has  her  own  beauty  stolen  on  her? 
Wouldn't  she  liefer  see  ye  sitting  down  in  this  place 
with  one  had  the  looks  of  her  and  ye  thinkin'  maybe 
'twas  her  own  lap  had  been  nursin'  ye,  than  traipsing 
the  hills  and  contriving  the  way  ye'd  forget  the  sight 
of  her?  If  'tis  a  woman  she  is,  wouldn't  she  rather 
be  romancin'  that  way  with  herself  than  not  at 
all?  Sit  down  here  on  the  floor  at  my  feet  and 
let  ye  stretch  out  now  for  yeer  sleep  that  has  been 
these  long  days  coming  to  ye  and  is  behind  ye 
yet." 

If  it  was  pity  and  consolation  she  had  in  her  voice, 
he  took  none  of  them  from  the  words  that  she  said, 
but  called  upon  the  name  of  God  to  his  witness  that 
the  woman  he  loved  had  kept  him  alone  in  those 
days  to  the  trembling  purpose  of  his  ideal. 

"Wouldn't  she  despise  me  now  for  the  poor  weak 
thing  that  I  am,"  said  he  bitterly,  "and  she,  down 
there  in  the  valley,  thinking  I'd  be  fighting  alone  the 
battle  that's  in  me !" 

She  rose  quietly  to  her  feet  and  he  trembled  but 
did  not  move  away  as  she  came  near  to  him. 

"If  'tis  not  afraid  of  her  beauty  ye  are,  the  way 
ye  can  say  the  parting  word  when  ye're  with  her, 
why  would  ye  be  afraid  of  her  beauty  in  me?" 

"  'Tis  not  her  beauty  I'm  afraid  of  now,"  he 
295 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

answered,  "but  the  fear  is  of  myself.  You  are  the 
thing  in  me  that  brings  the  fear  into  my  heart. 
It's  not  her  beauty  that  you  symbolize  in  the  body 
that  you  have,  but  my  own  fear  of  myself  and  the 
emotions  and  desires  that  are  overwhelming  me. 
While  I  am  with  her,  her  beauty  is  nothing.  I 
should  not  miss  it  to-morrow  if  it  were  gone,  for  the 
age  of  the  years  might  rob  her  of  it  and  beauty 
would  still  be  in  her  mind  for  me  to  love.  But  when 
I  am  come  away,  then  the  passion  that  is  in  me 
brings  her  beauty  close  to  my  eyes.  I  grow  fright- 
ened of  the  thing  that  I  am  and  the  desires  that 
beset  me.  It  is  only  then,  when  my  emotions  are 
upon  me  and  I  grow  weak  to  resist,  that  my  eyes 
see  you,  in  the  living  form  of  the  beauty  that  she 
has." 

"  'Tis  the  worst  that  I'd  be  in  ye  so?"  said  she 
sadly. 

He  bent  his  head. 

"But  shure  isn't  every  woman  the  good  and  the 
bad  in  a  man?"  she  went  on.  "And  might  I  not  be 
the  spirit  of  herself  would  be  seekin'  the  best  and 
the  worst  in  ye,  the  way  no  other  woman  would  be 
comin'  the  ways  of  the  roads  and  be  stealin'  a  part 
of  the  whole  man  that  she  loved?" 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  eyes,  for  the  softness  of 
her  voice  was  becoming  the  sounds  of  music  that 
floated  about  in  the  air  above  his  head  and  came 
between  the  throbs  of  his  senses  and  the  power  of  his 
will.  Then  he  knew  how  the  strength  he  had  gath- 
ered was  fast  going  out  of  him  and  he  put  out  his 

296 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

hands  touching  her  arms,  because  he  knew  that  in 
the  warmth  of  them  there  was  the  forgetfulness  of 
sleep  to  be  found. 

So  she  stood  there  quietly,  in  a  passive  obedience 
to  his  touch,  and  only  put  back  her  head  that  when 
he  opened  his  eyes  he  might  see  all  the  willingness 
of  the  beauty  that  was  in  her  face. 

But  it  was  as  if  he  knew  and  was  afraid  to  look 
at  her.  For  then  he  summoned  the  faltering  power 
of  his  will;  his  fingers  tightened  upon  her  arms  and 
slowly  and  blindly  he  led  her  to  the  door  and  un- 
fastened the  latch. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  whispered. 

"  'Tis  you  are  going,"  he  answered,  "to  the 
shadows  of  the  hills  and  the  mists  that  drive  over 
the  mountains  from  which  you  came." 

"Is  it  putting  me  out  in  the  storm  again?"  she 
murmured,  "and  I  with  the  bare  feet  on  me  would 
be  cut  and  bleeding  with  the  sthones?" 

"The  roads  of  the  wind  will  be  easier  walking 
than  the  mountain  paths,"  said  he.  "Don't  I  know 
'twas  to  soften  the  heart  in  me  you  came  with  the 
wet  blood  on  your  feet?  Let  you  go  by  the  roads 
of  the  wind  and  leave  me  to  the  torment  of  my 
soul  alone." 

She  took  his  hand  from  the  latch  and  fastened  it 
back  and  her  arms  came  about  his  neck  when  she 
saw  that  he  meant  them  to  be  parted. 

"Ye  won't  let  me  be  goin'  this  night,"  she  cried 
softly  in  his  ear.  "Aren't  there  all  the  black  hours 
till  morning  and  wouldn't  ye  be  walkin'  the  floor 

297 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

for  the  madness  that's  in  ye  and  never  shutting  yeer 
eyes  in  sleep?" 

In  the  last  effort  of  his  will  and  the  purpose 
that  was  flickering  in  him  he  raised  his  voice. 

"For  the  sake  of  God,  will  ye  go!"  he  cried. 

But  she  clung  to  him  closer  and  her  hands  were 
now  upon  his  face  and  her  fingers  were  touching  his 
eyes.  And  the  strength  then  went  out  from  him  like 
water  rushing  and  for  the  first  moment  since  they 
were  standing  by  the  door,  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  her. 

The  light  of  the  fire  was  catching  the  line  of  her 
cheeks.  He  saw  her  lips  were  parted  as  she  breathed 
and  the  whole  air  about  them  was  full  of  the  sounds 
as  of  a  furnace  that  roared  in  his  ears.  Then  he 
gave  up  the  purpose  of  his  soul  and  she  took  him  in 
her  arms  and  kissed  the  trembling  thing  that  he  was. 

So  had  the  words  of  Mrs.  Coyne  come  to  the  truth, 
for  the  night  was  battering  with  the  wind  across  the 
mountains  at  his  little  door  when  Anthony  Sorel  lost 
all  the  wisdom  that  had  stood  to  him  and  was  taken 
by  the  faeries  in  Knockshunahallion. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  storm  had  beaten  itself  out  and  purged 
the  heavens  of  their  clouds  of  rain,  the  sun 
was  mounted  high  in  a  sky  of  blue  when  An- 
thony Sorel  awoke  and  saw  the  beauty  of  the  face 
that  was  lying  beside  his  upon  the  pillow. 

He  had  slept  indeed  without  the  torment  of  his 
dreams  and  with  the  peacefulness  of  rest  that  comes 
to  the  sleep  of  a  child.  And  now  that  strength  had 
returned  to  him,  he  was  left  in  all  the  bitter  con- 
templation of  remorse. 

There  were  those  he  had  heard  of  in  the  moun- 
tains whom  the  faeries  had  taken,  who  after  some 
years  came  back — witless  creatures  with  wild  and 
staring  eyes — to  the  people  and  the  relations  of 
their  former  life.  Was  he  to  become  now  one  of 
these  ?  Had  all  hope  of  the  purpose  of  his  soul  been 
destroyed  in  him?  Was  he  to  wander,  as  with  those 
creatures  the  faeries  had  stolen,  over  the  untrodden 
mountain  paths,  begging  here  a  crust  of  bread  and 
there  a  cup  of  water,  until  the  spell  of  his  own  emo- 
tions had  been  taken  from  him  and  he  was  a  free 
man  once  more? 

Yet  what  would  that  freedom  mean  when  once  it 

had  come  back  to  him?    After  those  years,  he  too 

would  be  lost  in  his  wits,  the  songs  that  he  had  sung 

would  all  be  dead  in  him  and  the  children  in  the 

20  299 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

cottages  and  the  farms  would  fling  their  laughter  at 
him  in  derision  as  he  went  by. 

One  hope  only  he  clung  to,  the  thought  that  there 
still  lived  in  the  valley  the  woman  of  his  ideal,  with 
the  strength  of  whose  inspiration  he  yet  might  cast 
away  the  spell  of  these  emotions  that  had  fallen 
upon  him. 

The  faeries  indeed  had  put  the  stroke  of  their 
hand  upon  him  and  he  knew  the  mark  of  it  would 
be  there,  in  the  fear  of  his  eyes  and  the  dejection 
of  his  heart,  for  many  of  the  long  days  that  were 
yet  to  come.  But  there  was  nothing,  not  even  in 
the  power  of  their  mystic  hands,  that  could  take 
from  him  the  ideal  he  still  was  clinging  to  and,  step- 
ping silently  from  the  bed  where  he  lay,  he  crept 
across  the  floor  to  the  light  of  his  window  and  looked 
out  upon  the  glory  of  the  rising  sun. 

There  was  the  hope  for  him,  a  glory  of  the  God  in 
Heaven  that  surely  rose  day  by  day  to  lift  up  the 
light  of  the  earth.  He  clasped  his  hands  and  almost 
his  thoughts  became  a  prayer  as  he  clung  to  the 
assurance  that  it  brought  him. 

It  was  only  because  of  himself  that  he  had  fallen 
into  the  power  of  their  hands.  Now  that  strength 
had  come  back  to  him  with  the  peacefulness  of  his 
sleep,  his  emotions  no  longer  beset  him  and  though 
he  well  knew  that  in  those  two  years  he  had  achieved 
no  mastery  over  them,  there  was  yet  the  ideal  that 
he  had,  undimmed  before  his  eyes. 

He  permitted  the  name  of  Anna  Quartermaine 
in  a  whisper  to  pass  his  lips  and  it  brought  no 

300 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

shame  of  the  love  that  he  had  for  her,  only  the 
shame  of  his  own  weakness  which  in  the  greatness 
of  her  heart  he  knew  she  would  one  day  forgive. 

So  it  was,  when  hope  had  risen  up  above  the  bitter- 
ness of  shame  and  remorse  in  his  heart,  he  turned 
from  the  window  and  set  about  the  gathering  to- 
gether of  his  things,  the  crucifix  on  the  chimney  wall 
and  the  few  things  that  he  treasured,  for  the  journey 
upon  the  roads  that  he  was  going  to  make  that  day. 

For  some  time  as  he  moved  about  the  room,  he 
heard  only  the  gentle  sounds  of  her  sleeping  on  the 
bed,  the  soft  and  indrawn  breath  between  her  parted 
lips. 

Presently,  to  a  noise  that  he  made,  she  turned  and 
sighed  like  a  child  in  the  happiness  of  its  content- 
ment. He  crossed  to  the  bed  and  looked  down  at 
her,  thinking  she  was  to  wake  and  making  ready  to 
tell  her  how  soon  he  would  be  gone.  But  the  depth 
of  her  sleep  was  still  with  her.  And  then  as  he 
stood  there,  his  thoughts  brought  him  back  to  the 
night  when  first  he  had  seen  her  face  through  the 
pane  of  Malachi's  window,  of  the  way  he  had  asked 
her  to  unloose  the  kerchief  from  her  head  and  how 
she  had  bid  him  unfasten  the  knot  himself  and  how 
he  had  feared  then  to  touch  her. 

Now,  was  it  only  curiosity  or  again  the  return  of 
those  emotions  that  he  feared,  for  the  longing  came 
over  him  to  untie  the  knot  there  as  she  slept. 

All  her  hair  and  the  lines  of  her  face  were  con- 
cealed by  the  kerchief  that  bound  her  head  about. 
Her  eyes  and  her  lips  were  the  eyes  and  the  lips  of 

301 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

Anna  Quartermaine,  and  he  knew  that  the  likeness 
of  them  was  the  spell  cast  over  him  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  his  mind. 

Would  that  spell  be  gone  and  that  likeness  vanish 
when  once  the  kerchief  was  removed? 

With  gentle  and  silent  fingers,  he  softly  unfastened 
the  knot  and  laid  the  ends  of  the  kerchief  back  upon 
the  pillow  and  there  was  her  hair  and  all  the  shape 
of  her  face  as  she  slept,  uncovered  for  his  eyes  to 
see. 

He  stared  and  stared  again  and  the  cry  that  came 
up  to  his  lips  was  never  uttered. 

It  was  Anna  Quartermaine !  For  not  only  was  the 
likeness  complete  in  every  way,  beyond  all  power  of 
his  imagination,  but  there  in  the  warm  strands  of 
her  hair  was  the  comb  of  jade  her  fingers  had  for- 
gotten in  their  speed  the  night  before  to  take  away. 

It  was  Anna  Quartermaine !  And  all  the  ideal  he 
had  clung  to  was  broken  in  a  thousand  pieces  at 
his  feet. 

"Never  to  my  knowing  do  the  blossoms  be  part- 
ing from  the  trees  till  the  seeds  be  set  an^the  winds 
of  God  do  be  scattering  them  east  and  west  in  the 
fruitful  corners  of  the  earth." 

These  were  the  words  of  Malachi  come  home  to 
him  now.  The  madness  of  love  was  a  great  thing, 
but  the  thorn  trees  only  blossomed  in  the  want  of 
their  seed  and  all  the  reward  that  a  man  might  ask 
was  the  gift  of  pleasure  that  nature  had  to  give 
him. 

She  had  destroyed  the  ideal  that  was  in  him.  He 
302 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

could  never  believe  in  life  or  in  love  or  in  himself 
again. 

And  then  he  trembled  and  swayed  from  the  bal- 
ance of  his  mind.  It  was  death  he  saw  then — the 
death  and  the  end  of  all  things,  and  his  breath  was 
fast  between  his  lips  as  he  sought  for  the  means  to 
find  it. 

A  knife  was  lying  on  the  table  under  the  window's 
ledge,  the  knife  he  had  used  for  his  bread  the  night 
before.  It  was  this  he  took  in  his  hand  and  scarcely 
knew  it  was  there. 

Death  he  asked  for,  which  the  old  man  in  his 
dreams  had  said  was  the  awakening  of  life.  In  the 
madness  that  had  come  upon  him,  he  thought  that 
no  man  could  do  otherwise. 

And  so  he  brought  the  knife  in  his  hand  and 
stood  looking  at  her  as  she  lay  asleep  on  his  bed. 
There  was  no  thought  of  hesitation  in  his  mind.  He 
lifted  his  arm  and  thanked  God  as  he  struck  that 
the  strength  was  left  in  him  for  the  striking. 

She  quivered,  as  the  knife  quivered  in  her  breast. 
No  sound  did  she  make  as  her  eyes  opened,  and  there 
were  the  countless  questions  that  flew  from  her  eyes 
to  his  before  they  closed  again  and  were  shut  in  a 
heavier  slumber  than  that  of  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

TO  my  mind,  this  is  where  ends  the  story  of 
Anthony  Sorel  and  Anna  Quartermaine. 

In  such  a  tale  of  faerie  as  this,  the  ugliness 
of  the  things  that  happened  after  that  night  of 
Anthony  Sorel's  pitiless  realization  in  those  Irish 
mountains,  has  but  little  place. 

I  know  and  have  already  told  how  he  carried  the 
body  of  Anna  Quartermaine  out  into  the  heather 
and  laid  her  there  on  her  last  bed  with  the  knife  still 
sunken  in  her  breast.  I  have  no  doubt  there  was 
in  his  mind  the  last  tenderness  for  her  thus.  He 
had  no  wish  to  hide  his  deed  but  would  not  have 
them  find  her  on  the  bed  he  brought  her  from. 

For  none  of  the  essential  part  of  this  story  I  have 
written  came  to  be  known  at  the  trial  in  the  court- 
house of  the  city  of  Cork.  This  was  the  tale  and 
its  secret  that  Malachi  told  me  and  after  he  had  come 
to  the  death  of  Anna  Quartermaine,  his  voice  and 
the  flow  of  his  words  came  as  it  were  like  a  faintly 
trickling  stream  that  has  spent  itself  in  flood  and  has 
but  a  dim  echo  of  the  torrent  that  it  was. 

He  spoke  again  indeed  with  Anthony  Sorel  as  he 
sat  alone  waiting  for  that  justice  which  could 
never  judge  him,  by  the  lake  near  the  summit  of 
Knockshunahallion.  But  what  they  said  of  this 
strange  crime  of  passion,  that  I  shall  never  know, 

304 


THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

for  here  it  was  that  Malachi  became  almost  inco- 
herent in  his  story  and  the  words  fell  weakly  and 
broken  from  his  lips. 

Of  the  trial  itself,  which  I  have  read  in  detail  in 
the  Cork  papers  of  that  day,  nothing  in  keeping  with 
this  story  could  be  written.  Already  I  have  told  how 
he  kept  his  silence  throughout  all  the  trial.  Except 
for  those  few  poignant  words :  "They  are  mad  who 
look  for  justice,  as  those  who  would  hunt  for  a  shil- 
ling under  a  stone." 

And  that  he  was  hanged  for  his  crime  in  the  jail 
in  Cork,  you,  who  have  begun  this  story  at  its  be- 
ginning and  followed  it  patiently  until  the  end,  will 
know. 

It  has  been  impossible  to  re-tell  it  all  in  the  exact 
words  of  that  old  man  Malachi,  as  he  told  it  to  me. 
The  poetic  similes  he  used,  the  quaint  turns  of 
speech,  the  words  that  would  have  been  strange  to 
so  many  would  have  become  bewildering  in  tran- 
scription. 

I  have  tried,  and  I  fear  with  but  ill  success,  to 
catch  the  note  of  his  speech  as,  hearing  one  of  the 
thousand  sounds  in  Nature,  you  try  to  find  its  corre- 
sponding note  upon  the  strings  of  some  musical  in- 
strument. 

If  I  have  succeeded  in  the  ears  of  some,  I  shall 
feel  I  have  not  tried  in  vain  to  make  a  living  thing 
out  of  this  tale  of  faerie  which,  to  those  who  never 
heard  the  secret  of  it  from  that  old  man's  lips,  has 
been  till  now  the  passionate  crime  of  Anthony  Sorel. 


(i) 


QOO  Q>* 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


1968 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


A    000  031  870    9 


